


My Angel

by AU Mer-Maid (neonstardust)



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alcohol, Alcohol Is Present/Mentioned In A Few Brief Scenes, Almost Kiss, Alternate Universe - Different Sports, Alternate Universe - Office, Alternate Universe - Roommates/Housemates, Cat Cafés, Christmas Dinner, Coffee Shops, Drinking, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Hangover, Happy Ending, Ice Skating, Light Angst, Mistletoe, Misunderstandings, Museum Date, Pillow Fights, Roommates to lovers, Sharing a Bed, Sickfic, Thanksgiving Dinner, Vomiting, Vomiting Only Occurs Once And Is Handled As Vaguely As Possible, Zoo, and there was only one bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-01
Updated: 2020-02-01
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:19:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 39,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22040173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neonstardust/pseuds/AU%20Mer-Maid
Summary: Shirabu constructs the perfect schedule.He works at a prestigious agency. He cooks breakfast on the days his roommate makes dinner. They alternate who washes dishes with who sleeps on the couch. Shirabu volunteers for the biggest position of the year. He'll guarantee himself a bright future away from his current struggles.Falling in love, however, was not on his list.In which, Shirabu and Yahaba fake date their way into a hot mess.
Relationships: Akaashi Keiji/Ennoshita Chikara, Hanamaki Takahiro/Oikawa Tooru, Iwaizumi Hajime/Matsukawa Issei, Shirabu Kenjirou/Yahaba Shigeru, Watari Shinji/Yachi Hitoka
Comments: 81
Kudos: 90





	1. Everything That Can Go Wrong

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> November

Shirabu wakes up ten minutes before his alarm clock goes off. This isn’t unusual. His insomnia is the bane of his existence, and his roommate likes to fan the fire with his early morning noise.

But today is special. Kicking off the bedsheets, he gets up and brushes his teeth in record time. It costed him two weeks of making dinner, but he even got Yahaba to iron his clothes for him. Standing before the mirror, Shirabu straightens his tie and reminds himself that this effort is worth it. He’s the boy who made it into Shiratorizawa without a sport scholarship. He became a starter and graduated with top marks from both high school and college. He’s got this.

Half asleep, snuggled up in rumpled pajamas and a fuzzy blanket, Yahaba gestures to the kitchen. “I’ll make coffee.” He yawns. “Gimme ten minutes.”

Shirabu grabs his briefcase. “Already made it.”

“That’s nice,” he mumbles incoherently. Rolling on his side, he buries his face in the couch. “Don’t forget anything.”

He won’t. Uncapping a marker, he crosses out the day on the calendar. This is it. This is his final chance to get things right without getting trapped in a time crunch. He packed all his stuff the night before. His jacket is already waiting for him by the door so he won’t enter the meeting red nosed and shivering. He rehearsed his pitch all throughout his shower. He is prepared.

Three-fourths asleep, Yahaba slurs something unintelligible about a banjo. Shirabu tries not to think about it. He needs to focus. Stepping out the door, he knows he’ll get to work early, but that’s okay. He can use the extra time to prepare and warm up. Already, sleet coats the sidewalk outside of the apartment. The chill bites at his nose. Wrapping his scarf around his face, he heads for the train station.

Shirabu takes a deep breath and releases it slowly. He’s got this. He can relax now.

He forgot his lunch.

Taking another deep breath, he hangs onto this one longer and boards the train. Lunch can wait. It’s not worth invoking a favor from Yahaba, not today.

No. Today, he will defeat Oikawa Tooru.

The train rocks with a familiar sway. Leaning back in his seat, Shirabu tries not to dwell on his past losses. The first few requests were casual, not serious enough. Shirabu had still been new to the company back then. When he made his first formal proposal, it had only been June. It was Oikawa’s job—his utter delight—to shut down people’s hopes and dreams at that stage in the game.

Shirabu had played his role well. He calculated what days to try again, spacing them out just long enough to not be annoying but to not be forgotten either. Taking on all of Oikawa’s hellish assignments, he completed each one expertly and only complained to Yahaba about them, far away from his gossiping coworkers. Now it’s time for him to reap the benefits.

The train reaches his stop, and he’s the first one off the platform. The ground here has been cleared, but it’s still slippery. Treading carefully, he walks until the unimpressive building comes into sight. It’s a tall place, but the structures surrounding it make it seem dwarfed and small. That’s fine with Shirabu. If his meeting goes as planned, he’ll be able to leave this place soon enough.

The thought fuels him onward, through the lobby and up the stairs. No more Oikawa. No more intrusive coworkers asking about his nonexistent love life. No more listening to Yahaba snore into a bowl of cereal because he passed out in the kitchen again. He just needs to survive two more months.

He can do this.

* * *

“No.”

Shirabu’s eye twitches, and he struggles to stop himself from throwing the table. “What is your reasoning?” he asks again.

Oikawa smiles. He’s playing with Shirabu; they both know it. Instead of answering, Oikawa pulls on a pair of glasses everyone in the office claims are fake and scans through one of Shirabu’s reports. “This is stellar work, Shira-kun. Keep this up”—his smile grows, smug and vicious—“and _maybe_ you’ll be ready next year.”

“What about this year?” Shirabu presses. He’s not going to let Oikawa get away with this so easily. Oikawa’s a sadist, not a fool; if he’s honestly rejecting him and not just teasing like normal, then he must have a reason for it.

“My, my, Shira-kun. Did you not have a backup plan?” Oikawa shakes his head. “How short sighted. That’s not like you at all,” he says in a tone that suggests that’s exactly what he thinks Shirabu is like.

Shirabu refuses to let him under his skin. “It would be inefficient, since I’m the only candidate.”

“Oh?” Reaching across the table, Oikawa pulls out a long list of names. “This is the most important project of the year, you know.” He flips it over, revealing more names on the back. “Everyone applied.”

“Not everyone is qualified,” Shirabu argues.

“You’re right.” He stands. “With a little more practice, one day you’ll be qualified for sure.”

“Listen, you...” Shirabu hisses.

The door opens. 

“Sorry to intrude,” a familiar voice says. 

Shirabu tenses. No. It can't be.

Turning in his seat, his worst fear comes true as Yahaba of all people steps through the door. Shirabu’s stomach drops. Why is _he_ here?

“Oh, Shirabu.” Yahaba regards him with the same level of surprise he might spare for a book that was left off the bookshelf or a coupon he discovered on the side of a product he had just purchased. “I left your lunch on your desk.” Hands on his hips, he adds, “If you throw out the broccoli again, so help me...”

Oikawa blinks. “Lunch?”

Shirabu drags a hand down his face. At this point, this might as well happen. He has no dignity left to lose. Everything is lost. Even his clothes, he realizes upon looking at Yahaba more closely. “Stop stealing my shirts.”

“His... what...” Oikawa says, eyes wide.

“Stop forgetting to do laundry,” Yahaba says, but his phone rings. Mumbling an apology, he ducks back outside. Awkward silence settles in his wake.

“You know Yahaba?” Oikawa asks.

Shirabu’s eyes narrow. He doesn’t like where this is heading. He never mentioned Yahaba’s name. “I live with him,” he says slowly.

Oikawa steps closer, his gaze intimidating. “You’re his roommate?”

Shirabu rolls his eyes. “No, I’m his boyfriend,” he says sarcastically. Collecting his papers, he stands, almost missing the look of utter horror plastered on Oikawa’s face. “Uh—”

“Sorry about that,” Yahaba says, stepping back into Oikawa’s office. “Are you ready to go, Oikawa-san?”

Oikawa-san? Shirabu looks between the two of them.

Yahaba frowns. “I’m not interrupting, am I?”

Shirabu scoffs. “No. He’s just finished rejecting me for the project.”

“What?” Yahaba turns to Oikawa. “Why?”

Oikawa laughs, the sound high and fake. “Now, now, Shira-kun.” He throws an arm around Shirabu’s neck. His nails dig into his shoulder. “You shouldn’t make jokes like that. Of course you got the assignment.”

Yahaba’s brow furrows, concern clear in his eyes. He opens his mouth, but Oikawa speaks first. “Can you give us a moment, Yahaba? We just need to finish a tiny bit of paperwork, m’kay?”

“Right.” Yahaba sends Shirabu a questioning look, but he opens the door. “I’ll just be out here then.”

Oikawa beams. With one last worried glance, Yahaba leaves. The door clicks shut.

“If you hurt my precious kouhai, I will destroy you.” Oikawa spins Shirabu around to face him.

His kouhai?

Hurt him?

Oh.

 _Oh_.

A smirk curls Shirabu’s lips. “I’d never hurt Shigeru.”

Oikawa gasps, clutching his chest.

“He’s my precious boyfriend, after all,” Shirabu continues.

Glare dark and threatening, Oikawa grips his shoulders. “You’re faking this whole thing, aren’t you?”

Shirabu grins. “Never.”

The phone rings, cutting off Oikawa’s death threat, and Shirabu seizes the opportunity to escape his hold. “I’ll let you get that,” he says, fast walking to the exit. “Look forward to working with you on the new project.”

Shirabu slams the door behind him and breathes out a sigh of relief. He got the assignment, but this was not in his plans.

He doesn’t have time to think about it. Bolting down the hall, he grabs Yahaba and yanks him to the side. “We’re dating now.”

Yahaba’s jaw drops. “You and Oikawa-san?” he exclaims.

Shirabu covers his mouth with his hand. “No, you dimwit. You and me.” Shirabu glances back, but Oikawa hasn’t emerged yet. He let’s Yahaba go. Leaning closer, he whispers, “Pretend to date me, and I’ll do anything you ask.”

Yahaba’s eyes light up. “Anything?”

“Anything... within reason,” Shirabu corrects.

Crossing his arms over his chest, Yahaba says, “No deal.”

The doorknob twists. “Anything,” Shirabu agrees.

Yahaba slips his arms around Shirabu’s waist, pressing a kiss to his forehead just as Oikawa steps out. “See you tonight.”

Shirabu freezes. “Yeah.” Awkwardly, he puts a hand on Yahaba’s cheek, almost poking his eye out on accident. They’re going to need to practice this.

Nuzzling into Shirabu’s hand, Yahaba whispers, “Clumsy sausage fingers.”

“Shut up,” Shirabu hisses.

Yahaba pecks his cheek and lets him go. “Are you ready, Oikawa-san?”

Oikawa’s eye twitches. Smile strained, he loops an arm around Yahaba’s shoulders. “We should talk about your taste in men.”

“Yeah.” Yahaba glances back at Shirabu as they walk away. “He’s great, isn’t he,” he sighs with fake fondness. Besides him, Oikawa struggles not to scream.

Once they’re out of sight, Shirabu leans back against the wall, head in his hands. What has he done?


	2. Will Go Wrong

The moment Shirabu steps inside, the torment begins.

Yahaba holds out a container of nail polish. “Help me with this?”

“No.”

Yahaba raises a challenging eyebrow. “Guess I better call Oikawa-san and tell him we broke up.”

Shirabu pauses. A breakup would get him out of this mess without having to admit he faked it in the first place, even if it only started due to a misunderstanding. This could be his chance. But if Oikawa suspects even for a second that he broke Yahaba’s heart... It gives Shirabu a headache just to think about it. If Oikawa was a nightmare before, it will be hell on earth now.

Dragging his feet, Shirabu takes the nail polish. “I’ve never done this before.”

“I know.” Yahaba holds out his hand. “It’ll make for a cute story when I show Oikawa-san.”

Shirabu considers pouring the nail polish on Yahaba’s head. Deciding not to stain the couch, he opens the lid and starts on his index finger. Purple drips messily across his nail. The brush flattens, leaving dark splotches on Yahaba’s cuticles.

Yahaba uses his other hand to scroll through his phone. “You know it’s your turn to do dishes, right?”

“I did them yesterday,” Shirabu snaps.

“What happened to ‘I’ll do anything for you, Yahaba-sama’?” Yahaba’s voice pitches into something that sounds nothing like Shirabu.

He glares. “I’ll do the dishes, but I draw the line at calling you -sama.” Dipping the brush back into the bottle, he moves on to the next finger.

Yahaba hums. “We need nicknames.”

“Nicknames?” Shirabu asks.

“Yeah, like ‘sweetie’ and stuff. C’mon.” He faces Shirabu. “What’s the first thing that comes to mind when you think of me?”

“Annoying.”

“No.”

“Shallow.”

“Jerk.”

“Used dish cloth.”

“Garbage face,” Yahaba snaps.

Shirabu shoves him. “Dishonored boyband wannabe.”

Dropping his phone, Yahaba shoves him back. “Edgy 80’s math nerd.”

“Goblin model boy.” Setting aside the nail polish, Shirabu grabs a pillow and hits him with it. “Disney swamp prince reject.”

Yahaba throws up his arms for protection. “Ice king monster fuc—”

Shirabu hits him again. Yahaba grabs a pillow of his own, but Shirabu presses him back. With one of his hands rendered useless by nail polish, Shirabu gains the advantage. “You. Damn. Creampuff,” he seethes, bringing the pillow down again and again.

Yahaba pokes his head out above his pillow shield. “Creampuff?” He catches Shirabu’s pillow before he can stuff it down his throat. “Say that again, but less awful.”

“Creampuff.” Shirabu tackles him, smooshing the pillow down until his head is sandwiched between it and the couch.

“Sh’no good,” Yahaba mumbles. He wiggles an arm up to take some of the pressure off his face. “You sound like an angry teenager in a werewolf drama.”

Shirabu hits him one last time before climbing off him. “You’re insufferable.”

“Would it kill you to say ‘honey’?”

“Yes!” Shirabu runs a frustrated hand through his hair. Nail polish clings to his fingers, tangling in his bangs. “Dammit. Damn it all.”

Not bothering to sit up, Yahaba stuffs his pillow behind his head. “I think we should see other people,” he says.

“Clearly.” Shirabu leans back into the couch, but, unable to rest, he stands up. He needs a plan. He needs someone to remove Yahaba’s vocal cords. “ _Dammit_. How do you know Oikawa?”

“Went to school together.” Stretching, he picks up his phone from where it fell on the floor during their fight. “He was captain of the baseball team.”

“You played baseball?” Shirabu asks. The mental image of Yahaba with a bat seems like something straight out of his nightmares.

“Pitcher,” he chirps. “You?”

Shirabu stops pacing. “Basketball.”

Frowning, Yahaba says, “But you’re so short.”

Shirabu picks up another pillow, and Yahaba dives over the back of the couch to hide, hitting the ground with a thump.

“I can’t.” Shirabu slumps down onto the table and hangs his head in his hands. “I can’t do this.”

Yahaba peeks at him over the edge of the couch. “Babe.”

Shirabu ignores him.

“Baby.”

Squeezing his eyes shut, Shirabu counts to three.

“Darling?”

Shirabu counts to ten. Heaving a sigh, he says, “Yes...” He swallows hard. “Dear?”

Deeming it safe, Yahaba creeps out of his hiding place and perches on the edge of the couch. “That was tolerable.” Softer, he asks, “You don’t date much, I take it?”

Shirabu shrugs. He dated a classmate for a few days until they asked him to skip practice one afternoon. Throughout college, he’d gone on dates and study dates and hangouts that turned out to be dates and dates that turned out to be an excuse to copy his homework. Most of his kisses had been sloppy and drunk before he realized he didn’t quite care for that with or without alcohol.

Yahaba offers a friendly smile. “I have a friend who’s not much for dating. You’d probably be better off with him as your fake boyfriend.”

Shirabu nods, but that doesn’t seem right. Two people who don’t know what they’re doing would be a far cry from convincing. He needs someone with experience. Someone to pull him into their arms at just the right moment to convince Oikawa their fake love is real.

In the end, it doesn’t matter. It has to be Yahaba. Even if by some miracle he could track down another of Oikawa’s kouhai, there’s no possible way Oikawa would forgive him for leaving Yahaba, nor does he have any guarantee that the other kouhai will be any less annoying than Yahaba.

“Dating you is gonna be hell,” Shirabu sighs.

“You’re no flipping angel either, buddy.” Yahaba looks away. “So, uh, by the way...”

A bad feeling settles in Shirabu’s stomach. “You are not allowed to have bad news,” he warns.

Yahaba stares intently at the wall. “I have... not great news.”

“Illegal,” Shirabu insists.

Reluctantly, Yahaba faces him. “In my defense—”

“Ah, hell.”

“—I am a great liar.”

Shirabu covers his ears, but he knows he needs to hear this now before they get themselves into any further trouble. “Go on.”

“I,” he starts. Stopping, he scratches the back of his neck. “I, um, can’t lie to Oikawa-san.”

“What?”

“Well, you see—”

Shirabu stands. Yahaba presses back against the couch, his head smacking against it. “Let me explain,” he pleads.

Grabbing the front of his shirt, Shirabu pulls him to stand. “You can’t lie,” he says, “to the one person we need to lie to. Is that what you just said?”

“You are very beautiful today—”

Shirabu drops him. “I’m doomed.” He tilts his head back to look at the water stained ceiling and prays it will fall on him.

Hands slip around his hips, and then Yahaba pulls him onto his lap. Shirabu flails. His hand almost hits Yahaba, but he ducks, using the movement to snuggle into Shirabu’s neck.

“What now?” Shirabu sighs.

Pulling back, Yahaba runs his fingers through Shirabu’s hair. His nail polish is ruined. It seems like a lifetime ago that Shirabu was worried about something as small as painting Yahaba’s nails.

“I can’t lie, per say,” Yahaba admits. “But I can act. It’ll take some teamwork, but if you do the lying, I can do the affection stuff.” He smiles. “Actions speak louder than words, right?”

Shirabu is less than convinced. “He’ll be watching us like a hawk. Acting won’t be enough.”

“Ah, but you forget.” Yahaba boops his nose. “I’m his junior, and our families are close friends. I know him like the back of my hand.”

“Why...” Shirabu chews his lip. He doesn’t want to ask; he doesn’t want to know. Still, the question burns in his mind stronger than ever.

Yahaba picks up on it either way. “Mostly because you offered to do anything I ask. But,” he says, carding his fingers through Shirabu’s hair, “you’re doing me a favor, too.”

Shirabu nods. More questions burn his tongue, but his head aches. His body sags with exhaustion. Climbing off Yahaba’s lap, he smothers a yawn behind his hand. He doesn’t think he can handle any more surprises today.

“See you tomorrow,” he mumbles.

“You forgot about dinner.” Yahaba smirks. “Sweetheart.”

Shirabu throws a pillow at him.


	3. Nothing According To Plan

The hands of death wrap around Shirabu’s throat to send him to eternal peace. Except, they’re on his shoulders, shaking him persistently.

“Wake up,” Yahaba says. It makes sense death would have Yahaba’s voice. Shirabu always knew he would be his demise; why wouldn’t he share the voice of a grim reaper?

“Shirabu, get up.” Yahaba practically hauls him out of bed, and Shirabu groans. “We need to plan,” he says.

Shirabu glares at him. “I want a divorce.”

“Buy me dinner before we talk about ending marriage. Now, come on.” With a final tug, he pulls Shirabu to sit up. “It’s important.”

“Better be,” Shirabu grumbles.

Yahaba hands him a mug of coffee. “Oikawa-san and I are going to lunch today. He wants you to come.”

“Gross.”

“Very.” He sits at the end of the bed. “We normally hit a café near your office. I always get tea with honey, no sugar.”

“Honey, no sugar,” Shirabu repeats. “I’m going back to bed now.”

“No.”

Shirabu’s eyes flutter closed, and Yahaba slaps his cheek a few times. Absently, he sips his coffee, nearly spilling it. Steam wafts into his face. It doesn’t taste as bitter as usual, as if Yahaba had actually bothered to add cream.

“Now listen,” he says. “Oikawa-san suspects this is fake. Telling you about the café is too easy. He wants to test you.”

Shirabu blinks against the darkness. His alarm won’t go off for another hour. He starts to lie down, but Yahaba catches his arms, holding him upright. “Hey, Rip Van Winkle, you need to be prepared.”

Mercilessly, Yahaba walks to the window and throws open the curtains. The first hints of sunlight shine into the room. Shirabu hisses.

“Oikawa-san will make up an excuse to avoid the café,” Yahaba explains. “There’s a new restaurant a few blocks over. When Oikawa-san blacklists the café, you say something like, ‘My darling Shigeru’s been dying to go to that new restaurant.’”

Shirabu takes another sip of his coffee, but the mug is already empty. “My dorky Shi—” a yawn breaks up his sentence. Lying down, he mumbles, “Go to dying restaurant.”

Hands drag him up again, this time pulling until he’s completely out of bed. Shirabu’s head bumps into a shoulder, his arms dangling in open air. “Let me sleep,” he demands.

“You’re heavy.” Yahaba grips him below the arms, hoisting him higher until Shirabu reluctantly stands on his own.

“I’m tired.” His legs wobble, and he holds Yahaba’s shoulders for balance.

“C’mon, we need to plan our first date.” Yahaba winks.

“All I’m planning is my first murder.” Sitting down on the edge of the bed, he stretches his arms, masking another yawn behind his hand.

Yahaba sits beside him and says, “Save it for our breakup. You ready?”

Shirabu picks up his mug and tries to drink, but the coffee has not magically refilled itself. With a large sigh, Yahaba takes pity on him. “I’ll refill it. But then”—he points at Shirabu—“you are going to take this seriously. Welcome to Fake Dating 101, dumbass.”

* * *

Watching them walk arm-in-arm, Shirabu thinks they look like a real couple, more convincing than he and Yahaba will ever be. Stuffing his hands in his pockets, Shirabu tries to keep his eyes open. His stomach growls; maybe it wasn’t a good idea to skip dinner last night.

“He changed my shift again,” Yahaba laments. “I’m exhausted.”

Shirabu glares. Maybe if he wasn’t up early antagonizing Shirabu, Yahaba wouldn’t be so tired.

Oikawa is more sympathetic. “Get lots of sleep tonight. And remember, I’m always available to threaten your boss.”

“That might get me fired.” He turns to Shirabu. “Don’t you think, dear?”

Shirabu shrugs, but Oikawa’s gaze burns into him. “Yes...” He tries to remember one of the nicknames Yahaba drilled him on that morning, but they feel fuzzy and far away, muddled among Yahaba’s favorite color and his list of childhood traumas.

“He’s still sleepy,” Yahaba explains. “He had, a, uh, nightmare.” His voice wobbles on the lie. Oikawa’s eyes narrow, and Yahaba quickly says, “We’re almost to the café, angel.”

“We went there yesterday.” Oikawa stops. “Let’s try some place new, hmm?”

Yahaba tilts his head. “Like where?” he asks, putting a hand on Shirabu’s shoulder.

Shirabu stares at the ground and wishes this date will end already.

Yahaba pinches him. Jumping, Shirabu says, “You’ve been dying.”

“What?” Oikawa whips toward him.

“Dying to go to that new restaurant,” Shirabu corrects. He can’t remember if Yahaba ever told him the name of the place. He waits for Yahaba to hug him like they rehearsed, but a yawn renders Yahaba useless.

With a condescending smile, Oikawa wraps an arm around Yahaba and leads him away from Shirabu. “Actually, I already made reservations elsewhere.”

Yahaba and Shirabu exchange a glance. “Where?” Yahaba asks.

Oikawa pats his shoulder, but he spares Shirabu a vicious smile when he says, “It’s a surprise.”

* * *

Shirabu sits perfectly still, not breathing. His eyes sting. His lungs burn, yet Oikawa’s gaze sears into him from across the table.

Yahaba clings to his arm. “Shirabu?” he whispers.

It’s a test. Shirabu’s positive of that much. But what’s the right answer?

Lacing his fingers together, Oikawa rests his chin on his hands. “Having fun, Shira-kun?”

“Yes.” Shirabu keeps his eyes on the table. Before him, the cat stretches, her paws spreading out. Satisfied, she hops on Shirabu’s lap. He breathes in sharply.

“You okay?” Yahaba whispers.

“People show their true colors around animals,” Oikawa says smugly. “Don’t you agree, Shira-kun?”

Shirabu barely hears him. The cat yawns, her mouth bright pink like the skin of her nose. Suddenly, she bumps her head against his hand, and Shirabu’s resolve breaks. He scratches behind her ears, along her back. She curls up on his legs, and it’s all Shirabu can do not to melt.

Something bumps his leg. An orange head pops up, jumping on the seat beside him. The new cat presses himself against Shirabu’s thigh. Silently, Shirabu struggles to remain calm.

Oikawa and Yahaba exchange a glance. “He’s okay,” Yahaba says just as Oikawa asks, “Is he going to combust?”

Yahaba chuckles nervously. “Shirabu loves animals. Right, darling?” He elbows his side.

Face buried in the fur of a brilliant tabby cat, Shirabu can only muffle out a sound of agreement. Her tail hooks around his arm. She rests her paw on top of his hand, and Shirabu kisses her head to thank her for her bountiful blessing.

Oikawa looks from Yahaba to Shirabu. Under his breath, he counts out five cats investigating Shirabu. “Does he bathe in matatabi?” he asks, eyebrows lifting as a sixth cat climbs onto Shirabu’s shoulder.

Yahaba pulls the cat off before he can fall. “Animals love him,” he says, his voice wavering into more of a question than an explanation. “So, uh, how’s the project coming?” He sips his tea. “Shirabu said it’s the biggest one of the year.”

Oikawa hums. He tries to pet a nearby cat, but it runs away from him. Shirabu can’t blame it. Dark waves radiate off him. His eyes shine blacker than his coffee.

Rubbing his nose, Shirabu says, “I’ll have the first outline finished by Monday.”

“I need it tomorrow,” Oikawa says.

Shirabu glares. Besides him, Yahaba says, “That’s so soon.”

Oikawa watches Shirabu with that annoying smug look on his face, and Shirabu grits his teeth. “It will be ready tomorrow.”

“I expect nothing less.” Oikawa finishes his salad. “A truly qualified person can meet any deadline, after all.”

Shirabu snaps his chopsticks in half.

“But enough about that.” Oikawa laughs. “Tell me about _you_.”

Shirabu turns to Yahaba and tries to imitate his best “I love you face,” but it does not feel much different from his “oh, I stepped on a leaf that didn’t crunch face.” He thinks of holding his hand, but with it resting on the seat beside him, Oikawa will never see the gesture. “We started dating three months ago,” Shirabu says, just like they practiced.

Smiling, Yahaba rests his head on Shirabu’s shoulder. Across the table, Oikawa’s fork clinks loudly as he stabs his empty bowl.

He’s still tired. Fortunately, the coffee has cleared his brain enough to remember the details of their fake relationship. Yahaba’s favorite color is blue. Shirabu took him on three awful dates that Oikawa already knows the full details on except for the fact that it was three people who were not Shirabu who took Yahaba out. His favorite food is ikura don.

The other details had seemed too unimportant to bother memorizing. Based on the rage in Oikawa’s gaze, he already knows them anyway. Shirabu kisses the top of Yahaba’s head, and Oikawa bends the fork in half.

Shirabu rubs his nose, eyes watery. On his lap, the cat purrs when he scratches behind her ear. They need to leave soon. But how? Moving her would be illegal.

As if picking up on his thoughts, Yahaba checks the time on his phone. “Darn, my shift starts soon.” Standing, he pulls on his jacket and scarf. “Are you guys ready?”

Shirabu sneezes. He grabs a tissue just before the next sneeze.

“Bless you—” Yahaba starts, but a third sneeze cuts him off, followed by a fourth and a pitiful sniffle. “You alright?”

“Yes.” Shirabu shoves a handful of napkins into his face. The cats move away, thoroughly displeased with their rude awakening.

Yahaba looks from their fleeing forms back to Shirabu. “Oh no.”

“It’s nothing,” Shirabu insists.

Eyes narrowing, Yahaba scoops up the nearest cat, holding it near Shirabu’s face, and he reels back, sneezing into his napkins. Yahaba’s gaze narrows further. 

“It's nothing—”

“You’re allergic, idiot!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Matatabi is a form of catnip grown from a vine in China and Japan.


	4. A Downhill Spiral

Oikawa scratches his hair, nearly knocking his glass off the top of his head where he had perched them an hour ago and then promptly forgot them. He crosses out sentences on the draft with red pen. “Have you worked out marketing strategies?”

“Yes, sir.”

Humming an acknowledgment, Oikawa shuffles the papers into a neat pile and passes them to him. “We’ll discuss them next week. Coordinate with Hana-chan for a time slot.”

Bowing his head, Shirabu slips out of the office. He almost expects Oikawa to call him back in, but he makes it to his desk without incident. Evil or not, Oikawa knows how to be professional when the occasion calls for it.

Slumping into his chair, Shirabu drops his head on his desk. He needs a nap. It costed him four hours of sleep to meet the first deadline, and the exhaustion only continues to grow. One weekend won’t be enough to make it up.

Lifting his head, he starts the revisions. If he naps through his lunch break and pushes his other assignments until the end of the day, he may just manage to complete it before one a.m.

If his computer stops updating, that is. He stares at the black loading screen of death through bleary eyes. Around him, the whispers of his coworkers lull into white noise.

“The end of the year project,” someone affirms.

“Him?”

“He _is_ a workaholic.”

Distantly, he realizes they’re gossiping about him. They must have grown bored of the Jello scandal. Before him, his screen offers a brief glimmer of hope that the updates may be done, and then it restarts itself. Shirabu digs his nails into his stress ball.

“Not fair,” a lady says. “He hasn’t been here that long.”

“Fair,” a man scoffs.

“The whole program’s gone downhill.”

“Yeah. All you need to do to get the job is sleep with the manager’s best friend.”

Shirabu clicks the mouse experimentally, but the loading wheel continues to spin. He wasn’t aware Oikawa had any friends, let alone a best friend. Unless he counted Yahaba.

 _Yahaba_.

Shirabu sits upright. The coworkers scatter. His stress ball bounces into the trashcan.

They think...

Shirabu drops his head into his hands. This isn’t good. He’s more than talented enough to get the assignment on his own; he just needs Yahaba to keep Oikawa’s obnoxious personality in check. How did they even find out about the ruse?

A lunchbox falls onto his desk. Shirabu stares at it blankly, slowly lifting his gaze to see the hand that dropped it.

“I told you not to forget anything,” Yahaba says. “So what do you do?” He drops a file. “You forgot _two things_.”

Behind Yahaba, two coworkers share knowing glances, whispering behind their hands, and the sickening reality of his situation comes together to make a horrifying sense. It was never about their fake dating charade. The rumor had started long before then, cultivated from months of Shirabu calling in favors to have Yahaba deliver forgotten items. This was unavoidable.

Shirabu clutches his head. “I’m going to throw up.”

Yahaba jumps back. “Do you need me to take you home?”

“Just heap coals on my head,” Shirabu mumbles.

With a quick glance around for Oikawa, Yahaba perches on the edge of his desk. “Seriously, what’s up?”

“I am having...” Shirabu drums his nails on his mousepad. “Moral ambiguity.”

Yahaba’s brow furrows. “You have morals?”

Shirabu tries to hit him, but Yahaba catches his hand. Reaching out to tilt Shirabu’s chin up, he presses a kiss to his forehead. “Your devil horns are showing, angel,” he whispers.

“I’m leaving you.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Standing, Yahaba wraps his scarf around his neck. “We have a double date this weekend with a friend of mine.”

Shirabu blinks. Double dates are real?

Not missing a beat, Yahaba says, “I’ve got the graveyard shift, so I’ll tell you more in the morning. Love you.”

“Love you, too,” Shirabu says, his voice flat and mechanical. It feels wrong to lead on his coworkers when it will only bite him in the end, but if word gets back to Oikawa that it’s fake...

Shirabu can’t wait for this project to be over.

* * *

“He’s too good at this,” Yahaba sighs. He swings their hands lightly between them, and Shirabu tries to match the tempo. “I didn’t expect him to have a counter plan. Next time, we’ll have a counter plan for his counter plan.”

“Complicated.” Shirabu buries his face deeper in his scarf. The wind cuts through all three of his jackets. Besides him, Yahaba didn’t even bother to zip up his one jacket, and Shirabu silently hopes he gets hypothermia for his winter crimes.

“Why are we having a date,” Shirabu asks, “if Oikawa isn’t here to see it?”

Yahaba waves his phone. “Don’t underestimate the power of social media. Anyway, the date is just a cover.” He flips through a text message conversation with far too many emojis. “Shinji knows what’s up.”

“A cover,” Shirabu repeats. Ahead, the park gates come into view. A light layer of snow dusts the grass, and children hurry to make snow angels before the noon sun can melt it away.

“Mhm.” Yahaba pockets his phone. “We need cute couple’s pictures. His partner does photography.”

Shirabu pulls a face, but Yahaba only squeezes his hand, pulling him towards a tree. Beneath it, a boy waves at them eagerly.

“You’re late,” he scolds, coming forward to hug Yahaba.

“Sorry.” Yahaba gestures at Shirabu. “He didn’t want to come.”

The boy turns to him, positively beaming, and bows his head. “I’m Watari Shinji.”

“Uh, yeah. Shirabu Kenjirou,” he mumbles. “So... you know about us?”

Watari smiles. “That it’s fake? We know. Your secret’s safe with us!”

“Us?” Shirabu repeats.

“Um...” A voice whispers from behind the tree. A frightened head pokes out, followed by two trembling hands. “Pleasure to meet you,” she stutters.

Watari’s gaze softens, and he holds out his arm for her. “This is Hitoka.”

“Yachi Hitoka!” She bows deeply. “Pleasure to meet you.”

“You already said th—”

Yahaba elbows him. “Yacchan is shy, but she warms up fast.”

Watching her shake from head to toe, Shirabu thinks he’s seen ice cubes warmer than her. Any pictures she manages to take will be blurry as hell. On the bright side, it should be easy enough for him to persuade her to delete any photos he doesn’t like. The realization helps him to relax some of the tension he didn’t know he’d been carrying.

Watari pets her hair. “Ready to go?”

“Yes.” Yachi nods firmly. A new determination shines in her eyes. “I promise the pictures will be good enough to fool Mr. Bat-Breaker, Yahaba-san.”

Shirabu raises an eyebrow. Leaning close, Yahaba whispers, “We had a, uh, slight incident with Oikawa-san and a bowling ball.”

A camera flashes. Shirabu blinks, his vision swimming with bright dots. “Sorry,” Yachi squeaks.

“Warn us next time? And less flash, yeah?” Yahaba rubs his left eye. The motion looks awkward somehow, and Shirabu realizes he’s still holding Yahaba’s left hand. He lets go quickly.

“Right!” She faithfully turns the flash off. “Yahaba-san, can you please stand over there?” Yachi gestures beneath the tree. “And, and Shirabu-san..." she stutters, hiding behind Watari. "Can you, please, maybe, stand beside him, please.”

Oh, this is going to be a long day.

* * *

“This was an awful idea,” Shirabu snaps.

Yahaba strokes Shirabu’s cheek lovingly with one hand, but his other hand, hidden from the camera’s range, pinches Shirabu’s arm. “Shut up. I’m cold, too.”

“You’re cold,” Shirabu scoffs. He pulls his jacket tighter, but the frozen ground beneath him seeps into his bones. The grass touching his back feels like icy water. His head rests on Yahaba’s lap, but not even that is enough to stop the cold from reaching up to his ears, turning his nose painful red.

The camera clicks. Shirabu bolts upright and hugs himself for warmth.

“It would go faster if you stopped squirming,” Yahaba sighs.

“I’m cold, you abomination to evolution.” Shirabu slaps his hands away, but catching sight of Yachi’s camera, he stops, allowing Yahaba to wrap him in his cold, vampire-esque arms. Shirabu shudders. Thankfully Yahaba’s chest provides some warmth, shielding him from the frigid breeze.

“You would not last one day at my job,” Yahaba mumbles.

Shirabu struggles not to blink. “No, I’d quit. Unlike you, I have standards.”

Watari hands him a book. Propping it open on his lap with numb fingers, Shirabu pretends to read—pretends the chattering of his teeth is only the singing of cicadas where it is sunny and hot, far into the future. Yahaba snuggles his cold face against Shirabu’s neck, like the fingers of death wrapping around his throat, and Shirabu represses the urge to beat him with the book.

Yachi and Watari compare the pictures on their cameras side by side. “Angry?” he asks.

She nods. “Angry.”

“Shirabu-san, can you pretend to be asleep?” Watari asks, his polite version of telling Shirabu to look less like he’s going to commit murder.

Yahaba takes the book, shifting for Shirabu to lean back against him. Shirabu closes his eyes. His teeth chatter.

“Hmm...” The flash lights up his eyelids, and he tenses. “Is he having a nightmare?”

“I’m cold,” Shirabu seethes. His head hurts. The beginnings of nausea stir in his stomach.

“I can edit this,” Yachi assures them. She’s more confident now that they've gotten started, but Shirabu doubts even she can salvage this disaster photo-shoot.

Yahaba shifts, his head bumping against Shirabu’s. His breath ruffles his hair. He must be pretending to sleep, too.

“Think warm thoughts, Shirabu-san,” Yachi whispers. The camera clicks. “A sauna.”

“Hot springs,” Watari offers.

“Hell,” Yahaba says, and Shirabu elbows him.

“Let’s try standing again.”

That’s easy for Watari to say. Shirabu’s legs feel numb, frozen. When he moves, his joints pop like rusty machinery. His nose burns as if frostbite has set in. Who he wouldn’t kill for a space heater right now.

Yahaba wraps his arms around him from behind. He settles his head on Shirabu’s shoulder. Hot breath warms his ear when he says, “It’s a good thing you’re short enough for this pose.”

Shirabu tenses.

The camera clicks.

Grabbing Yahaba’s arms, Shirabu plants his feet and yanks down hard, flipping Yahaba over his shoulder.

Yachi shrieks. The clicking continues as Watari dutifully captures the moment frame by frame.

His body thuds into the grass. Yahaba stares up at him, wide eyed. His mouth hangs open. Looking down at him, Yachi sniffles. “He’s dead.”

“He’s stunned, sweetie.” Watari pats her back. With his other hand, he takes one last picture to immortalize Yahaba’s shock before the outrage takes over, and he scrambles to his feet, tackling Shirabu to the frozen ground.

Shirabu shoves him. Yahaba’s knee hits hit stomach. Cringing, he pushes his hand against Yahaba’s face, forcing his head backward, until his grip on Shirabu’s shoulders loosens. Something wet soaks his back. Scooping up a handful of snow, Shirabu smashes it into Yahaba’s cheek. “You fight like a turkey!”

Yahaba reals back. Snow clings to his face like a beard, and he rubs his eyes. Wiggling a leg free, Shirabu kicks him off.

Before he can stand, arms wrap around his throat, hands pressed flat against his head. “It’s ‘chicken,’ dumbass,” Yahaba snaps.

Shirabu elbows his stomach. “That’s offensive to chickens.” He elbows again. Yahaba’s grip slips. Shirabu falls free, but his shoes slide in the wet dirt.

Grabbing Shirabu’s wrists, Yahaba pins him down. Shirabu’s chest heaves. A stitch burns his side. The heat of exertion mixes with the freezing snow seeping into his clothes, and he shivers. This will give him a fever for sure.

Staring up at Yahaba, Shirabu wishes he could sneeze on him now. His face is flushed, but his breathing is hardly labored. His grip on Shirabu’s wrists remains firm. Silently, Shirabu curses his stupid desk job for the dent its put in his stamina.

Mouth twitching, Yahaba bites down on a laugh. “Turkey,” he chuckles. He releases Shirabu, one hand coming up to cup his cheek. “Dumbass. Have you even _seen_ a turkey?”

Shirabu smacks him without any force. “Yeah, because turkeys just, they run loose in Miyagi.” He rolls his eyes, but lightness fills his chest.

“Stupid.” Yahaba’s face softens into a smile. He leans in closer. His fingers card through Shirabu's hair. “Stupid Shirabu,” he murmurs, closing the space between them.

Time slows down. Shirabu holds his breath.

A camera flashes.

Shirabu jumps. His head hits Yahaba’s, and they both wince.

“We got hot chocolate,” Yachi says. She holds up two steaming cups. Besides her, the camera dangles from Watari’s hand, and he gives a knowing smirk.

Yahaba scrambles to his feet. “Thanks, Yacchan,” he mumbles. His face burns bright red. Moving farther away, he ducks his head, his shoulders so tensed they nearly touch his ears.

Shirabu sits up slower. His head spins. He can feel the beginning of a cold setting in already.

Watari plops down beside him and hands him his drink. Marshmallows melt into the chocolate like dying snowmen. “We miss anything good?” he asks.

Shirabu lets the cup warm his hands. It’s a far cry from the hot bath and long nap he needs, but it’s the best he can ask for right now. Taking a tentative sip, he says, “Nope.”

Still, something sears in his stomach, like he’s missing something important.


	5. Actions Have Consequences

Shirabu wakes up to a burning throat. His head pounds. Congestion clogs his nose like it’s been filled with five thousand pounds of lead. Staring at the ceiling, he waits for death to claim him, but instead, sickness churns in his stomach, propelling him out of bed, hand clasped over his mouth.

The bathroom door is ajar. Pushing it open, he finds Yahaba already kneeling before the toilet. Based on the bags under his eyes, he’s been there for a while.

Shirabu kneels beside him.

“Kill me.”

“Me first.” Shirabu sniffles. The burning in his throat only worsens, his stomach tightening as his dinner comes back up. His chest stings. Coughs rack his body. His breath tastes gross, but the thought of standing long enough to brush his teeth is daunting.

Yahaba leans his head against the bathtub and groans. “I’m calling out sick.”

“You’re hungover,” Shirabu mumbles. Yahaba had a bad habit of coming home drunk whenever he hung out with old schoolmates, but Shirabu had hoped Watari would be an exception.

“What’s your excuse,” Yahaba challenges.

Shirabu flushes the toilet, and they both wince at the loud noise it makes. “I’m sick, stupid.”

“Don’t look like a cold to me.” He crawls to his feet slowly, like a deer learning to walk. Step by step, he makes a wobbling path to the kitchen.

Shirabu waits for his stomach to calm down before grabbing the counter and pulling himself to his feet. His legs ache. The very thought of food brings back his nausea, but he fumbles his way to the cabinet for a plate nonetheless, coughing into his sleeve.

“My roommate got me sick,” Yahaba mumbles into his phone. “Uh huh. Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

Shirabu slumps into a chair. The kitchen wobbles, or maybe it’s his head. A sneeze tickles his nose, and he quickly grabs a paper towel.

Yahaba crashes into the other chair, his head pressed flat against the tabletop. “You should call Oikawa-san,” he says. He pulls a cup closer, but, finding it empty, he flails his arm in the general direction of the refrigerator, as if that will summon water to him.

“Why?” Shirabu asks. He’s not sure exactly which question he’s asking, but with Yahaba, “why” is always the best question.

“You can’t go in like that.” Lumbering to his feet, he half-walks half-crawls to the water dispenser. “Ibuprofen. I need ibuprofen.”

Shirabu coughs once, then seven times in a row, each one sending a new wave of pain through his head. Stars fill his vision. Maybe going to work isn’t a good idea. He can power through the pain, but to deal with Oikawa’s antics in this condition would be torture.

“Fine,” Shirabu agrees. “But I’m claiming the bed.”

“Hah?” Yahaba turns to look at him, grabbing his head when he moves too fast. His cup overflows; he doesn’t seem to notice the water dripping over his hand and onto the floor. “No way. I need it.”

“I’m sick.”

“ _I’m dying_.”

“That’s what you get for drinking.” Shirabu cradles his arms protectively around his stomach. He never did eat breakfast, but, looking at his empty plate, he realizes he never made himself any. “I didn’t choose to get sick. Either way, I’m contagious, and I was already in the bed. You can’t use it.”

Finally noticing his overflowing cup, Yahaba curses and slurps some of the water. “You’re not contagious,” he protests. “Don’t be greedy.”

“Can’t.” Shirabu lifts his head off the tabletop. He doesn’t remember ever laying his head down. “I’m busy being sick.”

“For Pete’s sake.” Yahaba chugs the rest of his water and makes a dash for the bed. He looks almost like a snail trying to race, clinging from object to object, tripping over his own feet.

Rising from the table, Shirabu pushes himself to move just one snail shell faster, nearly falling over his chair. His legs waver like undercooked pasta. Ahead, Yahaba stops, holding his ears with both hands as if that will clear his vision, and Shirabu uses the hesitation to catch up.

Yahaba grabs Shirabu for balance. Shirabu staggers into the doorjamb. Yahaba faceplants the wall. Hobbling over the threshold, Shirabu flops onto the bed, smacking his leg against the footboard.

“Okay.” Yahaba slinks into the room, a hand over his face. “Okay. We’ll share.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

Yahaba eases himself into the bed beside him. “Yes.”

“You’ll get sick,” Shirabu argues.

“Nothing,” Yahaba says, “is worse than what I feel now.”

“Your breath smells like vomit.”

“Look who’s talking.” Yahaba snuggles onto his side, so close his nose bumps against Shirabu’s. One of his legs dangles over the bed for the demons to grab. “This is your fault,” he slurs into the pillow, “for not having a futon.”

Shirabu tries to wiggle away from him, but the edge of the bed is right there, his back perilously close to the demons’ range. “They’re too much work. Just sleep on the couch.” With great effort, he yanks the covers up to his ears.

“You.”

“No, you.”

“You...” Yahaba’s eyes close.

“Garbage breath,” Shirabu hisses. He rolls onto his back, then his side again. Shivers rack his body. He tries to curl up, but there’s no room with Yahaba there. Pulling the blankets up until they’re covered completely, he hugs himself for warmth. He should have grabbed a hot water bottle. Or a warm towel. Or just set himself on fire and ended this suffering. Now he’s going to freeze to death.

Except, Yahaba’s warm.

Shirabu glares at him, but Yahaba is already asleep. He glares harder and hopes his hostility will at least give him some kind of nightmare. “Human furnace,” Shirabu grumbles.

Yahaba only mumbles in his sleep.

Shirabu scoots next to him. A glimmer of heat warms Shirabu’s side, and he wriggles a bit closer, tucking his nose out of the way of Yahaba’s foul breath.

“You better pray I’m not contagious,” he says around a yawn that goes unheard. In hindsight, he’d been feeling decidedly bad the past few days, but he’d dismissed it as stress. Being out in the cold and snow was just the icing on his illness cake.

Leaning his head against Yahaba’s chest, he focuses on breathing until the world slips away.

* * *

His dreams twist and lighten, rumbling like a thunderstorm. A voice whispers to him through the rain and sleet. Black clouds. Gray clouds. The soft lightning of wakefulness just behind his eyelids.

“Sorry about that,” Yahaba whispers. His voice rumbles, so close Shirabu can feel it in his chest. “He’s really out of it.”

Fingers stroke his hair. They trace delicate lines, smoothing his bangs behind his ear. He twirls the longer strands, sliding his hand soothingly down to the base of Shirabu’s neck. “Mhm. Yes, I will,” he whispers. “I have the day off. What? Uh... You know... Reasons?”

Shirabu’s hand tingles with onsetting numbness. The pounding slowly starts in his head again. Sniffling, he tries to snuggle deeper into the bed, but instead he finds heat, fabric. Hair tickles his arm.

“It’s not like that, Oikawa-san.” His nails brush lightly along Shirabu’s scalp, easing the pain. “Oikawa-san,” he whines. “Uh, well, no, I mean...” He shifts uncomfortably, and the movement jostles Shirabu.

He must have fallen asleep on the couch. Shirabu opens his eyes, expecting to find the living room. Instead, afternoon light streams in through the bedroom window. Bedsheets bunch around his waist. His head rests against Yahaba’s chest, one arm bent beneath his neck.

Yahaba’s fingers still in his hair. “I gotta go.” His nose scrunches, like Oikawa is still talking, and he mumbles, “Yes, yes, I’ll be there. Love you. Bye.”

“What day is it?” Shirabu asks. His voice comes out scratchy and hoarse. Pulling his arm out from beneath Yahaba’s neck, he stretches, his legs bumping against Yahaba’s where they have been tangled together. He grips Yahaba’s shoulder to keep from falling off him.

Yahaba’s voice is rumbling again, but Shirabu forgets to listen. “What time is it?”

“It’s been, like, two hours.”

Shirabu’s throat burns, so he nods, the motion hurting his head.

“Soup,” Yahaba says.

“What?”

“Kitchen. Soup.” Yahaba waves his hand in a vague circle.

Shirabu squints at him. “Are you offering to make me soup?”

Not looking at him, Yahaba says, “Yeah. That.”

Shirabu lets his eyes close. His stomach feels stable enough to handle food, but that would mean getting up. Hot soup versus the warm spot he’s found here. After the soup, he could have a hot bath, but he’d have to traverse the cold tile floor first. It’s a tough choice.

Yawning, he snuggles into Yahaba’s shoulder. “I wanna sleep.”

“Okay.”

Shirabu waits. Tiredness lingers in his eyes, his limbs, but the wakefulness of insomnia hovers over him. “It may take a while,” he mumbles. “Do you need to get up?”

“No, I’m fine. I feel better now. The nap really helped,” Yahaba says. “Some food and water, and I’ll be good as new.”

“Don’t gloat.”

Yahaba chuckles, the sound vibrating through Shirabu’s chest. Slow and delicate, he places his hands on Shirabu’s back. “Is this okay?”

“Yeah,” he says.

It shouldn’t be. Oikawa isn’t around to see the display of affection. They’ve been practicing little gestures while alone like hugs and hand holding and even a disastrous attempt at sitting on laps that broke a lamp and left Shirabu with a bruised cheek and Yahaba with a bruised leg after Shirabu punched him, but this feels different. It’s not something they would ever need to fake in front of Oikawa.

The idea of never doing it again only makes Shirabu more reluctant to move. Yahaba’s hand traces a line up and down his back, and it feels safe, warm.

Maybe it’s okay, just this once. He’s sick. No one could blame him for it, he tells himself. Who wouldn’t want someone at their side, watching over them, when sick?

Allowing himself to relax, he slips his hand beneath Yahaba’s neck again and waits for sleep.


	6. Worry Is A Gateway Emotion

Taking a sip from his empty coffee cup, Ennoshita reaches over and taps a segment on the report. “We worked on this while you were out.” He frowns into the mug, flipping it upside down to affirm that it is in fact empty. “Akaashi and I handled your meetings.”

“It’s fine.” Shirabu flips through the report and coughs into his shirt. The fever might have left him, but the cough seems to have taken up permanent residence in his lungs.

Ennoshita takes another sip from his empty cup. “Terushima-san turned in our paperwork.”

The report falls from his hands. “What?”

Ennoshita cringes. “Akaashi told him not to, but...”

“But?” Shirabu prompts.

“He gave them to Futakuchi-san,” Ennoshita says, and Shirabu drops his head on the desk.

Clothing rustles as Ennoshita picks up the fallen report. “It looked decent last time I read it,” Ennoshita continues. “But... you know how Terushima-san is with impromptu updates.”

Opening the bottom drawer, Shirabu pulls out his emergency Terushima Disaster Box and drops it on the desk. Ibuprofen rattles. The Dunce Cone of Shame rolls to the corner. Pushing aside the Red Bull, he grabs a can of coffee.

Ennoshita selects a chocolate bar. “I don’t know how you and Akaashi can drink that stuff. Coffee should be hot.”

“Terushima should be fired,” Shirabu says. “We don’t always get what we want.” Opening his coffee, he adds, “I’ll speak to Moniwa-san about the paperwork. If anyone is understanding of Futakuchi’s mistakes, it’s him.”

Ennoshita offers a slight smile. “So, how’s the boyfriend?”

“He’s...” Shirabu trails off. It’s a simple question, but his shoulders tense. “He’s fine,” he mumbles, and the words taste familiar. He’s been asked this before. _Ennoshita_ has asked this before.

“That’s good.” Ennoshita nibbles on his chocolate.

“Say”—Shirabu clicks absently on a few unimportant emails—“how long... have you known about our relationship?”

Ennoshita frowns, tilting his head. His warm, brown eyes always make him look sleepy, like hes just woken up, but thoughtfulness stirs within their depths. “Someone in accounting told me. It was early this year, I think.”

Shirabu accidentally deletes an email.

Ennoshita’s face falls. “You haven’t been dating that long.”

It’s a statement, but Shirabu nods anyway.

“I’m so sorry. I thought—And you didn’t correct me.”

“It’s fine.” Shirabu hands him another candy bar—anything to get that look of embarrassment and horror off his face.

If anything, it’s Shirabu’s fault. He’s sure a number of nameless, faceless people have asked him about a nonexistent boyfriend, and instead of taking the time to correct them, he merely went along with the mistake to get them to leave him alone. He never realized they were referring to a real person, especially not Yahaba.

Ennoshita rubs his temples. “I would like to restart the past ten months.”

“Same.” Shirabu takes a large sip of coffee; he’s going to need it.

Like suspenseful music starting up in a horror movie before something bad happens, curiosity brews in Ennoshita’s gaze.

 _Oh no_.

“How long have you been dating?” he asks.

Shirabu stares intently at his computer screen and stabs the spacebar. “Few months,” he lies.

Ennoshita leans forward, brows furrowed. “He’s okay with you working on this project?”

Shirabu pauses. It’s not a question he’d anticipated, and it leaves him without an answer. Of course Yahaba’s okay with it. It’s the whole reason they’re in this dating mess. Yahaba doesn’t care.

He can’t say that his alleged boyfriend doesn’t give a damn though, so Shirabu shrugs. “We’re discussing it,” he lies.

The smile Ennoshita offers as he stands looks more sad than reassured. He places his hand on Shirabu’s shoulder. “Don’t put off telling him,” he says.

Shirabu stares at him, but Ennoshita only squeezes his shoulder and says, “Trust me.”

* * *

Yahaba hits him with a roll of gift wrap. “No!”

“The hell?” Shirabu swats at him, but the gift wrap gives Yahaba better range. Dodging Shirabu’s attack, he hits him again with the roll.

“First”—Yahaba smacks the tube into his palm—“I have stuff to wrap.”

“Are any for me?”

“No.”

Shirabu deadpans. “Then I can see whatever the hell you’re wrapping—”

“Second,” Yahaba continues as if he hadn’t spoken. “You stole the bed, so I’m banning you to the couch for a day.”

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Shirabu says, “I slept on the couch _last night_.”

“Last night was already your night,” Yahaba argues. “It didn’t count. Sleep there tonight, and we’ll be even.”

“You slept with me!” Shirabu tries to snatch the gift wrap, but Yahaba flips it around, hitting him in the chest with it.

“Irrelevant.” Stepping back into the bedroom, he slams the door in Shirabu’s face, but not before Shirabu sees the bright red blush coloring his cheeks.

Shirabu hits the door. “You suck.”

The couch isn’t a terrible place to sleep. He and Yahaba often fall asleep there together when Shirabu’s sleep deprivation finally catches up with him and Yahaba’s dragging from an early morning shift. Shirabu’s almost perfected sleeping in a position that doesn’t make his legs dangle off the edge of the couch. Still, it doesn’t compare to having bedroom walls when Yahaba’s in the kitchen making an inhuman level of noise at four in the morning like a gremlin in search of coffee and trail mix.

Grabbing a clean pair of jeans out of the laundry basket, Shirabu changes out of his work clothes, throwing them on the floor for Yahaba to complain about later. It will serve as his meager punishment for the time being until Yahaba catches some kind of cold and Shirabu can get true revenge.

Except, he can’t.

He won’t be here that long.

Cursing, Shirabu sits on the couch. “Damn Ennoshita.” He pulls out his laptop, thumb hovering over the power button. It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t.

Shirabu beats his head against the couch cushion. “Hey, vomit-breath.”

“You’re not getting the bed, jerk-bucket,” Yahaba shouts through the door.

“Not that.” Shirabu runs a hand through his hair. “Damn, I can’t wait to get out of here.”

The door opens a crack, and Yahaba peers out at him. “The feeling is mutual.”

Shirabu stabs the power button on the laptop, watching as the screen lights up. “It won’t be long.” He glances at Yahaba and then back to the loading screen. “This project will get me out of here a lot faster.”

“Lucky.” Yahaba pulls a blue ribbon out of his hair and tosses it back into the room where Shirabu is sure he’ll find another few dozens of them amidst scraps of wrapping paper. “I’ve got another year of internships,” he sighs.

The laptop chimes as Shirabu enters his password. The files load slowly. Discord and Skype open against his will. Minimizing them, he shoves a flash drive into the USB port. “I’m leaving after the project is over.”

“Nice. Tokyo?” Yahaba wanders closer, climbing onto the arm of the couch.

“Something like that,” Shirabu mumbles. He hasn’t worked out all the details yet. “A little travelling here and there.” In his report, he made it as far as outlining the cities of their sister companies before getting stuck on international strategies. Japan he can handle, and America is understandable, albeit insane. Adding France and Germany to the mix, however, makes his head spin.

“I want to go west,” Yahaba says, as if picking up on his thoughts. “Africa. South America. Canada.” He sighs wistfully. “I can’t stand being trapped here in moose-less existence.”

Shirabu leans back, his head thumping against Yahaba’s thigh. “What’re you gonna do with a moose?”

Yahaba pokes his forehead. “Treasure it.”

“You’re okay with it,” Shirabu says. It’s supposed to be a question, but he doesn’t know what to ask. He doesn’t know why _Ennoshita_ asked.

“It?” Yahaba prompts.

“Leaving everything behind, I guess.”

Yahaba’s fingers smooth over Shirabu’s forehead, sliding into his hair. “No bread obsessed neighbors? No leaky bathtub?” He brushes back Shirabu’s bangs. “No landlady who only has change for a fifty in one-yen coins that smell like soy sauce? Nope,” he chirps. “Won’t miss a thing.”

“Yeah.”

“Shinji will be so jealous. I’ll send him lots of pictures,” he says. “I’ll finally have better stories to tell than Oikawa-san.”

“You’ll visit him?” Shirabu asks.

“Yep.” Yahaba smiles, bright and blinding. “I’ll visit all my friends.”

Right. Looking down at his report, Shirabu starts the next segment. There’s nothing to worry about he decides, leaning into Yahaba’s touch. Nothing at all.


	7. Blessings in Disguise

“I expect you to be there on time and dressed nicely.” Shirabu knocks Yahaba’s feet off the coffee table. “No sweatpants. No Hawaiian shirts.”

“I don’t even own a Hawaiian shirt,” he whines. “I don’t know why you always tell me this.”

Images of Semi—clad in neon Hawaiian shirts and cargo pants—drift through Shirabu’s mind. Shaking his head to clear it, he grabs a toothbrush and throws it at Yahaba. “This is to get the disgusting stench out of your mouth. Use it.”

Yahaba stares at him. “Dude.”

“Save it for when you don’t smell like garlic,” Shirabu says. Turning to the mirror, he fixes his own hair, tugging his tie into compliance.

“Garlic is an Italian delicacy,” Yahaba says. He balances a slice of cold pizza in one hand and a hardboiled egg in the other. Shirabu tries not to think about the combination.

“I am this close”—Shirabu holds up his hand, his index finger pressed firmly against his thumb—“to spraying air freshener directly down your throat.”

Yahaba glances at him, expression deadpan. “Buy me dinner first.”

“That is what I’m trying to do here,” Shirabu snaps. Viciously, he struggles to button his sleeve. There is no conceivable reason for sleeves to have buttons at the wrist of all places. They could at least do the world a favor and make it a snap instead of a button that no one can fasten with only one hand.

Fingers close around his wrist. “You’re too worked up,” Yahaba says, sliding the button through the hole. He straightens the sleeve and moves on to fix Shirabu’s collar. “I don’t get why there’s a dinner. It’s a Western holiday.”

“We’re an international company,” Shirabu stresses. “I can name five Americans in sales alone.”

Yahaba spares him a bleak look. “Name them.”

“They have stupid names,” Shirabu mumbles, looking away.

“Uh huh.” Yahaba tilts his chin up, turning Shirabu’s head from side to side. “You need a haircut.”

Slapping his hands away, Shirabu moves in front of the mirror and examines his hair again. It looks fine. Oikawa would have teased him mercilessly by now if it didn’t. Unless he was waiting for a special occasion like today, but Shirabu can deal with that. He can bring up how Oikawa’s pink neckties never match anything.

Yahaba rests his chin on Shirabu’s shoulder. “We look cute together.”

“You look like you crawled out of a frat house dumpster.”

“Correction. _I_ look cute.” Yahaba winks at himself in the mirror. “You, on the other hand, look like a porcupine adopted by a nouveau rich thousand-aire with no wife or kids.”

Shirabu nods. “I look like you then.”

“Listen—”

“You first.” Shirabu turns to face him and taps his watch. “On time. Dressed nice,” he says. “I’m going ahead. Akaashi can only maintain Futakuchi for so long, and I will _not_ let Oikawa show me up on the meet and greet.”

“Meet and greet?” Yahaba asks.

“There will be guest. Focus.” Shirabu pokes him.

Yahaba giggles.

“What...”

“No.”

“Are you...”

“No!”

A grin spreads across Shirabu’s face. “You’re ticklish.”

“I’m not.” Yahaba crosses his arms over his chest and turns away.

Smirking, Shirabu says, “Look me in the eye and say that.”

Yahaba glares. Determinedly, he looks into Shirabu’s eyes. “I...”

“You?” Shirabu holds out his hands near Yahaba’s sides, and Yahaba inches back, biting his lip.

“I am not...” Rubbing the back of his neck, he glances away. He swallows hard. “Ticklish.”

Stepping closer, Shirabu traces a hand down Yahaba’s side, watching as he fights to contain his laughter. “On time,” he repeats. “Dressed nicely.”

Yahaba nods vigorously.

Shirabu reaches up and cups his cheek, allowing his finger to brush against the sensitive skin behind Yahaba’s ear until his lips wobble with a barely contained smile. “And brush your flipping teeth.”

* * *

Interacting with people is like doing a sports interview. They ask similar questions, and Shirabu recites adequate answers, rephrasing them just enough to make it seem like they’re not all the same answer. He bows his head to those from the main sister company. He shakes the hands of the foreigners who mispronounce his name. He pours lemon juice in Futakuchi’s drink each time he catches him nettling a guest.

It’s a simple routine, and after two hours, he is thoroughly sick of it.

Akaashi passes out recovery shots of espresso. “Ennoshita-san is bringing out the food soon,” he assures him.

Shirabu downs his espresso and snags another before Akaashi can stop him. “Don’t we have assistants for that?”

“Yes, the secretaries were in charge of it.” Akaashi easily slips the remaining shots out of his reach, passing off the tray to another employee. “However, Futakuchi-kun was the only male secretary to show up. Ennoshita-san was afraid we would look sexist.”

Across the room, Futakuchi conspicuously shoves an entire croquette in his mouth.

“I think he was more worried Futakuchi would eat everything,” Shirabu mumbles. He watches Ennoshita attempt to put down a large covered tray with one hand, his other hand tangled in Terushima’s collar to prevent him from hitting on yet another intern. “Human resources is a troublesome division.”

“Yes.” Akaashi’s face softens just an incremental fraction.

Someone walks by with a tray of chips, and Shirabu accepts a small bowl of them to settle his stomach after the espresso.

“Your own trouble is about to begin,” Akaashi says.

Scowling, Shirabu looks around for Oikawa. He’d been surprisingly well mannered throughout the event; Shirabu should have known he’d start trouble eventually.

Instead, he’s met with kind eyes and a nervous smile. Shirabu’s gaze trails over brushed hair, miraculously devoid of stray leaves and flower petals, to a familiar button-down shirt stolen from his own closet and a pair of jeans—clean jeans without holes or mud or mysterious stains. The bowl falls out of Shirabu’s hands.

Out of the corner of his eye, Shirabu watches Akaashi politely hide a smile behind his napkin, but then strong arms wrap around him, stealing Shirabu’s attention. “Who are you and what have you done with Yahaba?” he whispers.

Yahaba pulls back and flicks his forehead. “You have the manners of a koala.”

“I don’t want to hear that from the person wearing my shirt,” Shirabu mumbles. It’s a bit tight on him compared to Shirabu and his desk job that never requires him to see the light of day. Somehow, Yahaba even managed to stop smelling like a zoo for once, and when Shirabu breathes in, the scent of apple cider tickles his nose.

“I’m cute though,” Yahaba says.

Akaashi sips his tea. “The fake dating appears to be going well.”

Shirabu tenses. His grip tightens, bunching up the fabric of Yahaba’s shirt. He hadn’t realized he was holding Yahaba, but the weight of that realization is buried under the panic surging through his chest.

“Oh, he knows?” Yahaba asks.

Shirabu’s voice doesn’t come. Rigidly, he shakes his head.

Yahaba’s face falls. “Oh.”

Akaashi sips his tea as if he didn’t just knock Shirabu’s feet out from under him. He feels nauseous. Holding Yahaba by the sleeve, he turns to face Akaashi. “How?”

Akaashi raises an eyebrow. “Please speak in sentences.”

The urge to reach out and shake him is overwhelming. “How did you know,” Shirabu grinds out the words.

Unimpressed, Akaashi bends down and collects Shirabu’s fallen bowl and chips off the floor.

Yahaba tugs on his arm. “Uh, should I go?” he asks, and Shirabu’s grip on his sleeve tightens.

Akaashi stands back up.

“Hey, guys.” Ennoshita walks over. If possible, Shirabu tenses more, his shoulders inching up towards his ears. Looking like a deer in the headlights, Yahaba pulls free of Shirabu’s grip and backs away, mumbling an excuse about the restroom.

“The food is ready.” Ennoshita frowns. “Is he okay?” he asks. Looking at Shirabu, his concern quickly increases. “Are you okay?”

“Yes,” Shirabu lies.

Ennoshita’s brow wrinkles, lips pursed, but Akaashi slips an arm around his waist and leads him away.

With each step they take, Shirabu’s panic skyrockets.

Akaashi is friends with Ennoshita.

Akaashi knows the truth.

If he tells Ennoshita...

Shirabu keeps his head high and walks out of the room. Whispers float past him. The door couldn’t be farther away, but finally, he reaches the hallway. Making sure no one is watching, he bolts for the restroom, locking the door behind him.

Standing before the sink, Yahaba splashes water in his face. “I’m going home,” he announces.

“No.” Grabbing a handful of paper towels, he shoves them against Yahaba’s chest. “Stay calm.”

“Calm?” Yahaba gives him an incredulous look, but beneath it, Shirabu sees panic spreading like wildfire. “I am not going out there to be humiliated. There is _nothing_ here to be calm about.”

Shirabu takes a slow, deep breath, watching as Yahaba reluctantly mimics the motion. Taking one of the paper towels back, he gently dries Yahaba’s face. “The only person we need to fool is Oikawa,” he whispers.

“Oikawa-san knows it’s fake.”

Shirabu recoils. Taking another deep breath, this one for himself, he lets it out slowly. “He doesn’t know,” Shirabu says. “He’s suspicious.”

“He knows.” Yahaba grabs his wrists. “He says it all the time.”

“Oikawa does that to mess with us—”

“You don’t know him like I do,” Yahaba cuts him off. His grip on Shirabu tightens; his wrists ache. “Oikawa-san can figure out anything,” he says. “He could always predict the other teams’ plays. He, he knew when someone was lying, and his grades—I don’t think he’s had an imperfect score in his life. He knows. I’m telling you, Shirabu; he knows.”

“You’re scared.” Shirabu’s wrists hurt, but through the pain, he feels Yahaba trembling. Pulling free from his grasp, he takes Yahaba’s hands in his.

Yahaba looks away. “I’m not scared. I’m just not stupid either.”

“You’re not,” Shirabu agrees.

Yahaba sucks in a surprised breath.

The paper towels have fallen to the floor around their feet. Grabbing a new one from the dispenser, Shirabu finishes drying Yahaba’s face. His bangs have turned dark with moisture, and Shirabu tucks them behind his ear to hide it. If anyone here needs a haircut, it’s him. That concern feels like it’s from a lifetime ago instead of just that afternoon.

“You’re not in high school anymore, Yahaba.” Shirabu dabs the paper towel beneath his eye, down his cheek. “You’re Oikawa’s equal now.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.” Gripping Yahaba’s chin, Shirabu turns his head to face him. “He’s not some damn captain anymore. For some stupid reason or another, he’s your friend.” Moving his hand up to caress Yahaba’s cheek, he wipes away a stray drop of water with his thumb. “Stop hiding in his shadow, and show him that he’s wrong.”

“Wrong about what?” Yahaba laughs, bitter and miserable. “He’s right about us. He’s right about this being fake. I’m not going to marry you just so you can win whatever competition you have going with him.” Softer he adds, “I can’t do this.”

Releasing him, Shirabu takes a step back. “Then don’t.”

“What?”

“Akaashi is out there right now with the truth. We don’t have time to fight over this,” Shirabu says. Yahaba reaches out for him, but he takes another step back. Yahaba’s hand closes on empty air.

“There are only two ways forward, Yahaba.” Shirabu opens the door. “We keep going and win this.” Stepping out, he says, “Or you go out there and fake dump me.”

“Shirabu...” His gaze drops to his feet. “I can’t. I’m not...”

“I believe in you.”

Yahaba doesn’t speak. Letting the door close between them, Shirabu walks down the hall, each step heavier than the last.

* * *

Futakuchi steals a sushi roll off Terushima’s plate when he’s not looking. Across the table, Moniwa shoots him a disappointed glance.

Shirabu pushes his food around with his chopsticks. He’d filled his plate up mechanically, not paying attention, and as punishment, he ended up with hot wings and pâté and something that looks like it was dredged up from the bottom of a toxic lake. A bowl of extra french fries sits on the table before him, but he never had much of a stomach for greasy food.

Futakuchi steals another sushi roll as Terushima becomes increasingly frustrated with his half empty plate. At the head of the table where Oikawa and the other managers sit, Hana rubs her temples.

Shirabu keeps his gaze on the mess he’s made of his food and tells himself he’s not hungry. It’s just the espresso shots upsetting his stomach, not the empty chair beside him. Akaashi isn’t whispering the truth about his embarrassingly fake relationship in Ennoshita’s ear, but instead a compliment on Ennoshita’s plating skills.

As for the way Oikawa is glaring daggers at him... he hasn’t come up with a reasonable lie for that yet.

It could be about the project, but Shirabu doesn’t want to think about that. The last thing he needs is to confront the fact that he’ll be removed from the project just as soon as this dinner party is over.

The thought makes his chest tighten. He glances at the empty chair. Somehow, Yahaba deciding to just leave without a word hurts worse than facing the embarrassment of a public fake breakup.

It’s fine. He supposes it won’t be a complete disaster. Oikawa will play off the whole thing as if Shirabu was never chosen for the project to avoid drawing bad publicity. Shirabu will pretend he was just working on something unimportant, and he’ll hand in his two weeks notice on the first day of December. He’ll go to one of their rival companies where there are no Oikawas or Akaashis or Terushimas trapping Futakuchis in a headlock for stealing food. He has no reason to stay—no reason to care. There is nothing to be upset about.

Shirabu stabs his pâté. Working through failure is what he does best.

Futakuchi steals one of Shirabu’s hot wings.

“Why didn’t you get your own?” Shirabu sighs.

“This is a survival tactic,” Futakuchi says, nodding to himself. “It prevents poisoning.”

Leaning across him, Terushima whispers, “Moniwa-san made him get vegetables.”

“Shut up.” Futakuchi elbows him. Moniwa frowns. With a smug grin, Futakuchi loops an arm around Shirabu’s shoulders and proclaims, “Shirabu doesn’t mind sharing with me.”

“Die,” Shirabu mumbles under his breath.

Futakuchi smiles. “There can only be one Kenji,” he whispers, “and it will be me.”

“He may not mind, but I do.”

Shirabu drops his chopsticks. Futakuchi lets him go, turning in his chair. “And who’re you?”

Arms slip around Shirabu’s shoulders. “I’m his boyfriend,” Yahaba says. He presses a kiss to the top of Shirabu’s head. “And you are?”

Futakuchi bows in his chair. “I’m the true Kenji,” he says, and Moniwa face palms.

Taking the empty seat beside Shirabu, Yahaba asks, “Then it would upset you greatly if I call him ‘Kenji’ instead?”

Futakuchi glares. Across the table, Moniwa whispers, “Can we please not do this here?”

Their squabbles fade into background noise. Shirabu stares at his plate. “Why?” It’s the only word he can formulate, the other parts of the sentence mixing and colliding in his brain until they disappear altogether in the fog.

Yahaba holds his hand beneath the table. “I figured it’s gonna be just as embarrassing to quit today as it will be to quit in three months.” With a reassuring smile, he says, “Might as well win this competition first then, eh?”

It won’t take three months. Looking at Oikawa, Shirabu finds him angrily slurping his noodles.

Yahaba chuckles. “He must be mad we missed his speech.”

“He had a speech?” Shirabu asks, and Oikawa demands another bowl of soba from a frightened secretary.

“Yeah. He’s been practicing for ages.” Leaning close, Yahaba whispers, “Do you think Akaashi-san will tell?”

“Don’t know.” He pushes his food around a little more until Yahaba takes away his chopsticks. “Maybe I can threaten him.”

“Let’s not,” Yahaba mumbles.

Shirabu raises an eyebrow. “Got a better plan?”

“Hmm.” Spotting a bowl of strawberry slices, Yahaba grabs it and takes one out. “How about”—he holds it up to Shirabu’s lips—“we act so cute together, no one will believe him?”

“That’s stupid—”

Yahaba shoves the strawberry in his mouth with more force than necessary. “Come again, angel?”

“Screw you,” Shirabu mumbles, chewing.

“Those aren’t the words I’m looking for,” Yahaba almost sings. More gently, he feeds Shirabu another strawberry slice.

Shirabu rolls his eyes. “This is hardly appropriate for a corporate dinner.”

Yahaba lifts a skeptical eyebrow. “The Americans are arm wrestling, and there’s a Frenchman playing chicken with your secretary.”

Turning in his chair, Shirabu watches Futakuchi valiantly run forward with the Frenchman on his shoulders, only to be knocked flat on his rear by Kuroo and Michimiya. Behind them, Terushima sits on the floor with a bottle of wine and cheers.

Yahaba grabs his own glass from a passing assistant, handing one to Shirabu. “Happy Turkey-giving.” He loops his arm through Shirabu’s; their glasses clink together.

Shirabu sighs. “It’s Thanksgiving.”

“Cheers.” Clinking their glasses again, Yahaba tips back his drink.

Shirabu sips his slowly. This dinner may have been shot to hell—even Akaashi dragged into the chaos to mercilessly slaughter his drunken associates in a game of trashcan basketball—but he will not be making a fool of himself.

Bumping Shirabu with his shoulder, Yahaba says, “I’m thankful for you.”

Shirabu’s face burns. Ducking his head, he grabs a napkin and covers his face with it. “You’re stupid,” he mumbles.

“Oh?” Yahaba snuggles into his side. “What happened to ‘you’re not stupid, Shigeru’ and ‘you’re the smartest and most attractive man in the world, Shigeru’?”

“Lies.” Shirabu tries to move away, but Yahaba pulls him close and presses a kiss to his temple where a migraine is brewing.

“You believe in me,” Yahaba singsongs.

“I believe you’re out of your mind.” Shirabu hits him with the napkin. “You’re the most embarrassing thing here.”

Shaking his head, Yahaba laughs, warm and carefree. Shirabu’s tension fades. Against his will, he finds himself glad that Yahaba is still here either way.


	8. The Countdown To Disaster

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> December

Sleep tugs at Shirabu’s eyelids. He nearly pours coffee onto the counter instead of into his mug. Stifling a yawn, he shuffles his way to the living room to find clothes, but he stops at the couch for a rest break instead.

The coffee is too bitter. It forces his mind to start working, organizing his day. He has a meeting with Oikawa first thing. After that he has a few phone calls to make and a report to revise. Somewhere in the midst of that he should take his lunch break, because he never has an appetite after one of their afternoon team meetings.

And then he’ll confront Akaashi.

The bedroom door swings open. Yahaba waddles out in three jackets. Wayward curls poke out beneath his hat. A scarf obscures part of his face, but it doesn’t dampen the glow of his beaming smile.

Shirabu sips his coffee. “Penguins?”

“Penguins,” Yahaba exclaims, nearly vibrating with excitement. He makes his way to the door.

Watching him pick up his bag, Shirabu frowns. That doesn’t seem right. “Got your lunch?” he asks.

“Ah!” He turns stiffly and runs to the kitchen.

Shirabu finishes his coffee. “Did you have breakfast?”

“Don’t need it.” Yahaba emerges with his lunchbox and shoves it into his bag.

“Coffee?”

“Don’t need it.”

“Your keys?” Shirabu asks.

“Don’t need—Ah!” He darts back to the bedroom.

Shirabu sighs into his mug. “You’re useless.”

“Love you, too,” Yahaba mumbles, and Shirabu suspects he didn’t really hear him. Yahaba is always at his most hopeless when dealing with something he really likes.

Before he can make it out of the door, Shirabu grabs his jacket hood. “Freeze.”

“Ehh.” Yahaba stretches his arms out in front of himself as if he can magically pull his way to freedom. “I’m gonna be late.”

“Your shift isn’t for another hour.” Shirabu yanks him back, nudging the door shut with his foot.

“You...” Yahaba stares at him. “You memorized my schedule?”

He did, but Yahaba’s stunned expression makes him look away, mumbling, “No.”

A smile splits Yahaba’s face, and he pulls up his scarf to hide it.

Shirabu’s face burns. “Make sure you have everything,” he snaps. “I’m not delivering anything you forget.” He heads to the kitchen for more coffee, and most definitely not because he wants to escape this embarrassing ordeal.

Yahaba follows him either way. “I won’t. I won’t.”

Shirabu refills his mug. Finding a second clean-looking mug on the counter, he pours some coffee for Yahaba, too. His penguin induced adrenaline is sure to run out eventually, and when it does, he’ll need the caffeine.

Yahaba accepts it with a soft smile. “Hey, Shirabu?”

“Yeah?” Shirabu lets the steam warm his face. He needs every scrap of heat he can get before he goes outside to face the freezing weather.

Yahaba shuffles his feet. “Um... About this fake dating thing. I...”

“I know.”

“You know?” Yahaba pales, nearly spilling his coffee.

Shirabu rolls his eyes. “No duh.” He glares into the black depths of his mug. “I’ll talk to Akaashi today.”

“Oh.” Nodding, Yahaba chews his lip. “Yeah. Right.” Hiding behind his coffee, he mumbles, “Can’t let anyone know it’s all pretend. _All of it_.” 

Frustration contorts his face. Yahaba must not believe him. Shirabu can’t blame him after the situation Akaashi put them in. Leaning closer, he nudges Yahaba with his shoulder. “Penguins.”

His lips curl into a weak smile. “Penguins.” Chugging his coffee, he shoves the empty mug onto the counter and kisses Shirabu’s cheek. “See you tonight. I’ll take lots of pictures!”

Shirabu watches him go with a smile of his own. “Have fun, dear.”

* * *

Hands folded neatly over their agenda, Shirabu waits. Futakuchi plays with the projector remote. Across from him, Terushima flips a water bottle, splattering stray droplets on his shirt from a lid that wasn’t screwed on quite right. Ennoshita offers him a napkin.

Shirabu checks his watch. The meeting officially started exactly twenty-two seconds ago.

Osamu taps his pen against the table. On either side of him, the two new recruits, Runa and Yamaguchi, keep their gazes trained on the floor and pretend they don’t exist. Usuri stares into space with a pleasant smile, as if plotting the end of the world.

The clock ticks. Shirabu glares at the only empty chair. His watch hits one minute past their starting time. “Where is Akaashi Keiji?”

Terushima elbows Futakuchi, who shrugs, and Shirabu wonders how he hasn’t been fired yet.

Ennoshita raises his hand. “He took two weeks off.”

“What?”

“Oh yeah.” Futakuchi opens his notebook and flips through a few pages of scribbles and drawings. “He said somethin’ ‘bout that. I think Sarukui in accounting’s out, too.”

A muscle works in Shirabu’s jaw. “Why do you know another department’s schedule better than ours?”

“Saru keeps candy bars in his desk,” Terushima says, nodding sagely.

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Shirabu counts to three, then to five, exhaling his annoyance. This throws a wrench in his plan to get Akaashi alone and threaten him into keeping his mouth shut about their secret, but it also means Akaashi isn’t there to tell anyone.

Unless Ennoshita knows.

Out of the corner of his eye, Shirabu watches Ennoshita take down notes in two separate notebooks, one of them probably for Akaashi.

No, Ennoshita is too open, too honest. If he knew, he would confront Shirabu.

“Are there any new proposals?” Shirabu asks once Futakuchi finishes fighting with the overhead projector.

Terushima raises his hand.

“Besides opening a cheesecake factory.”

Terushima lowers his hand.

Leaning his head in his palm, Shirabu says, “Alright, if there are no good ideas, then, Usuri-san, please begin.”

Usuri stands. He smiles far too brightly as he takes the projector remote and turns on his presentation. Bright blue letters light up the screen. “Lady, gentlemen, and Yamaguchi, today we will discuss the cost benefits of opening an in-house cheesecake factory.”

“Overruled,” Shirabu snaps.

Leaning his chair back on two legs, Terushima finger-guns. Osamu sighs deeply. Head bowed, Runa mumbles an apology on Terushima’s behalf.

“How much time did you waste on this?” Ennoshita asks.

“Great question!” Usuri flips to slide two of seventy-nine where a pie chart has been poorly edited into a cheesecake chart. “Let’s begin.”

* * *

Rain patters against the roof. Head leaned against the window, Shirabu listens to the guitar playing over the radio and debates quitting his job. If he stays, the project will be over soon enough. However, if he stays, he has to deal with his coworkers another few weeks.

He knows it’s not worth it to quit. If he could handle Tendou’s teasing, Taichi’s apathy, and Goshiki’s attention span all at once, then he can handle this.

His laptop whirls as he switches between programs. Colorful charts display numbers he’s too tired to look at.

On the wall, Yahaba has somehow managed to fill out every single day on the calendar with colorful notes. Amidst the excited all capital pink announcements and green sad faces, Shirabu finds his own black notes. Three minor projects due. One company dinner remaining. The airports are always horrible at the beginning of the month, leaving him with about two weeks after December finally ends.

Shirabu types the date into his report.

Thirty days left. He closes his eyes. Thirty days of dealing with the combined stupidity of Futakuchi and Terushima. He’ll still be stuck with Oikawa for a few more months, but he’ll never have to step foot in his office again.

It will be even less than thirty days, he supposes, when he factors in their days off.

The lock clicks and the door opens. “I’m home,” Yahaba calls. “How was your day?” Without pausing, he says, “Great. Mine was fantastic.”

Prying his face off the window, Shirabu plays along. “Why was it fantastic?”

Yahaba peels off one jacket, followed by a second. “Penguins!” He pulls down his pants, revealing another pair of pants underneath.

Shirabu eyes the baseball pattern. “Pajamas?”

“Yep.” Tossing the last jacket aside with his scarf, he sits down beside Shirabu and pulls out his phone. “This one”—he holds up a picture of a small penguin—“is Strawberry-chan.” He flips through seven more pictures of Strawberry-chan.

Shirabu leans his head on Yahaba’s shoulder as he introduces Shiro, Taro, and Yuuki. “Isamu-kun steals fish,” he explains. “Kuguri-kun distracted him while I fed Haru.” He flips to a picture of himself with a round penguin. “Haru arrived in spring.”

Yahaba swipes through more pictures, but the penguins all the look the same to Shirabu. “Will you work with them again?” he asks.

“That’s the best part.” Yahaba turns to him, beaming. “We assessed Keiko-chan today, and they say she’s ready to go home. I get to help prepare her for delivery. They’re flying her to Chile.” He pulls up a picture of the penguin in question. “There’s a reservation there.”

“Penguins live in Chile?” Shirabu asks.

“They live all over the southern hemisphere.” Yahaba leans his head against Shirabu’s. “I’ll miss her.”

“Is she your favorite?”

“Nah.” Yahaba closes his gallery. His home screen has been changed. Instead of a picture of Yahaba and Kuguri feeding a giraffe, Shirabu finds an image of a penguin surrounded by heart stickers. “Strawberry-chan is my favorite.”

“Oh?”

Yahaba holds up his hand. “She bit my finger, so I was kinda angry, but she brought me a half-eaten fish. I think that means she’s sorry.”

Shirabu examines his finger. “You look fine to me.”

“Gloves.” He flexes his hand. “Didn’t feel a thing. She’s an Antarctic penguin. They keep her in this super cold area away from the Chile penguins. So yeah, I had like three pairs of gloves on. Oh.”

“Oh?”

Yahaba straightens up, much to Shirabu’s chagrin, and gestures to the laptop. “Sorry. Were you working?”

That’s a stupid question; Shirabu is always working. He has a lot to do, and less than thirty days to do it.

“Just some revisions,” he lies.

Humming, Yahaba stretches. “I skipped breakfast, so I’ll make dinner.” He yawns. “Cool?”

Shirabu nods. Without Yahaba to lean on, he shifts to rest his head back on the window. Raindrops blur his vision. Tapping the space bar, he watches the laptop screen light up again. His rough draft of the timeline is almost complete.

The clock hits ten in the evening, bringing them down to less than thirty days.

Less than thirty days left with Yahaba.

For once, it doesn’t feel like a good thing.


	9. On Thin Ice

Gray clouds stretch on for miles and miles. Snowflakes flutter in the icy breeze. The smell of hot chocolate wafts from every storefront. Holiday lights decorate the square, and a magnificent tree stretches towards the heavens, colored in gold and blue and silver.

It’s a rotten, terrible day.

Shirabu drags his feet, trying to find purchase on the slippery grass, but Yahaba shoves him forward without mercy.

“This is stupid,” Shirabu mumbles through his two scarfs.

“It _snowed_ , Shirabu. _Snow_ ,” Yahaba says. “We have to be outside.”

Shirabu tries to duck around him, but Yahaba latches onto his arms and spins him around. “It’s so pretty out.”

“You’re a five-year-old.” Shirabu plants his feet. The world continues to spin. Holding his head, he waits for the dizziness to pass.

The stars slowly fade from his vision. Looking around, he finds Yahaba sitting on the ground. Leaves have been piled at his side. One by one, he uses them to transform the mound of snow at his feet into a bunny shaped blob family.

“There.” Yahaba adds the eyes on the smallest bunny. “A mom, a dad, a son, two kids, and a daughter.” Pulling out his phone, he takes a picture.

Shirabu leans closer to examine the lopsided mother bunny. “Are you implying sons and daughters aren’t kids?”

“No.” Standing, Yahaba snaps a picture of him. “I’m implying bunnies don’t follow gender rules.”

Shirabu rubs the camera flash from his eyes. New stars swirl through his vision. They dance around the snowflakes, twirling past Yahaba’s hands. Shirabu blinks. “No gloves.”

“Well, yeah.” Yahaba frowns. Pointing at a bunny’s paws, he says, “They don’t have hands.”

“Not them.” Shirabu grabs Yahaba’s wrist, shaking his hand before his face. “You, stupid. Aren’t you cold?”

“Yep.”

Shirabu waits. No further explanation follows. Exasperation rising, Shirabu grabs both of Yahaba’s hands and cups them in his own, hoping some of the warmth from his mittens will alleviate Yahaba’s impending frostbite.

“I hope you get sick. Stupid moron.” Shirabu breathes warm air on his shivering fingers. “I’m going home. You can freeze your ass off by yourself.”

Glancing up, he finds Yahaba staring at him with a strange expression. “What?”

Yahaba looks away. “Hey, we’re almost there,” he announces. Grabbing Shirabu’s arm, he yanks him forward.

“Almost where?” Around them, people walk through the snow hand in hand. Children throw snowballs. Couples skate across the frozen pond. A crowd gathers to take pictures of a dog wearing a winter jacket.

Yahaba glances back at him with a mischievous smile.

Shirabu freezes. “No.”

Yahaba pulls harder, but Shirabu backs away, both of their feet slipping on the slush and ice.

“Come on.” Yahaba tugs, and Shirabu struggles not to fall. “It’s Christmas, Shirabu.”

Shirabu grabs onto a nearby tree. “It’s December sixth, elf boy!”

Yahaba hooks his arms around Shirabu’s waist and pulls. “Every day after Halloween is Christmas.” Shirabu tries to dig his nails in, but hit mittens grant him zero purchase. His grip slips. Inch by inch, Yahaba pries him from the tree.

The pond stretches on for what seems like forever. Dark ice swirls with danger. Shirabu stares apprehensively. “It’s a death trap.”

Yahaba stops just long enough to pull a pair of skates out of his bag. “It’s totally safe,” he says, slipping off his shoes.

“Uh huh.” Shirabu hugs himself for warmth. This close to the pond, the air feels even colder. Fresh snowflakes soak his hat, his jacket, his mittens. No way can that be safe to skate on.

Finished with his skates, Yahaba starts unlacing Shirabu’s boot.

“Totally safe,” Shirabu mumbles. “That’s what they’ll put on your tombstone.”

Yahaba lifts Shirabu foot out of his boot, nearly sending him toppling to the ground. “As long as they don’t say I’m straight on there, I’m fine with anything.”

The skate is rigid. Yahaba eases Shirabu’s foot into the rough material, but already it feels wrong. The sides are too tight. The rest is too loose. Clinging to Yahaba’s shoulders, he struggles to balance.

Yahaba smiles up at him. “Maybe you should sit?”

“You’ve lost your mind.” Shirabu looks from the knife shoe strapped to his foot to the cold, frosted ground. Both options are terrible. He should be home. _They_ should be home, cuddled on the couch where it’s warm and they can bicker over movies instead of life or death winter activities.

Yahaba touches his other ankle.

“No.” Shirabu glares. “Don’t even think about—”

Yahaba lifts his foot. Shirabu wavers, arms flailing. His knee buckles, and he crashes into Yahaba. His elbow smacks the ground. Snow pillows his head. Like plunging into icy water, cold grips him, soaking him to his core.

“You suck.” Shirabu hits him.

Yahaba flicks snow in his face. “Lighten up.” He sits up fast and pulls off Shirabu’s other boot before he can stop him.

Staring up at the bleak sky, Shirabu waits for the snow to bury him. He’ll die as a shivering popsicle. Mankind will put him on display in a museum with a plaque detailing the mortifying events that led him to this moment.

“There.” Yahaba laces his skates. “All set.”

Shirabu can’t find the motivation to get up when the ambient air is just as cold as the ground. “This is a waste of time.” Pulling his scarves down he asks, “Why are we doing this if Oikawa isn’t here to see it?”

Yahaba tilts his head. “You need a reason? To go ice skating? Dude.” Shaking his head, he pulls Shirabu to sit up. “Do you even know how to have fun?”

Shirabu shoves him. Yahaba chuckles at his own bad joke, but, remembering their last snow fight and how poorly that ended, Shirabu lets it slide.

Bumping Shirabu with his shoulder, Yahaba stands up and miraculously doesn’t fall flat on his face. Shirabu stares at his knife shoes and waits. It’s only a matter of time before gravity wins.

Unconcerned, Yahaba holds out his hands. “C’mon.”

“No.”

“Scared?” Yahaba smirks.

Shirabu looks out at the pond. Cuts and scratches line the ice from all the skates digging into it. Snow bunches around the edges. Frost hides the water beneath it from view, concealing any cracks that may be lurking.

Sighing, Shirabu takes his hand. How hard can it be?

* * *

Shirabu’s knees hit the ice hard. Yahaba skates around him in a circle. “You’re getting better.”

“What about that,” Shirabu seethes, “was better?” His legs shake. Grabbing Yahaba’s jacket, he pulls himself back to his feet one uncertain centimeter at a time. He’s not sure if he’s relieved or disappointed that he doesn’t cause Yahaba to lose his balance.

Yahaba runs his fingers through Shirabu’s hair. “You didn’t fall flat on your face.” He places a featherlight kiss to the sore spot on Shirabu’s cheek where a bruise will be sure to form by morning.

Shoving him, Shirabu attempts to make his way back to solid ground. He holds his arms out for balance. His legs tremble. Shuffling his feet, he manages to get a whole ten centimeters.

Yahaba slow claps. “What a champion.”

Shirabu flips him off.

Skating around him, Yahaba grabs Shirabu’s hands and pulls him in lazy circles.

“Stop.” Shirabu throws his arms around Yahaba for balance.

“You won’t fall,” Yahaba promises. “Trust me.”

He slows to a stop, and Shirabu lifts his head to look at him. “Why should I?”

Yahaba smiles. “Because I—”

“Why should he?” a new voice asks.

“I wouldn’t,” a second voice—this one more familiar—adds. “Look at that creampuff hair.” A man skates around Yahaba. “Deceptive,” he states, ruffling his curls.

Oikawa skates by them, arms crossed over his chest. His scarf flutters behind him. “A relationship without trust.” He clicks his tongue.

The man with pink hair looks at him flatly. “I don’t trust you.”

“Makki!”

Chuckling, Yahaba helps Shirabu to stand upright. “This is Matsukawa-san and Hanamaki-san. I played baseball with them.”

“Yo.” Matsukawa bows his head. Beside him, Hanamaki holds up a peace sign.

Gripping Yahaba’s arm for dear life, Shirabu bows stiffly. “Shirabu Kenjirou.”

“Oh, we know.”

Shirabu looks from Matsukawa to Hanamaki. They have no reason to know him. Or maybe they do. Hanamaki’s voice sounds suspiciously familiar, like someone he’s overheard Oikawa talking to over the phone many times before.

Unconcerned, Hanamaki nods. “Tooru won’t shut up about you.”

Oikawa pushes his way between them. “They’re lying,” he says. “Tell him, Yahaba.”

Yahaba balks, torn between senpai, but Matsukawa skates to his side with a sly smile. “Yeah, tell him how he never shuts up about your relationship.”

Hanamaki skates to Yahaba’s other side, wrapping an arm around him. “How he’s so proud of Shira-kun.”

“I’m not.”

“How Shira-kun isn’t good enough for you,” Matsukawa adds.

“Well... he’s not,” Oikawa huffs.

Hanamaki spares him a career ending smile as he says, “How he dragged us out here specifically to meet him.”

With a high, forced laugh, Oikawa covers Hanamaki’s mouth. “I did not,” he insists. His voice drops low and threatening, but Hanamaki only boops his nose.

Shirabu bows again. One foot nearly slips out from beneath him, and he grabs Yahaba for support. “It’s nice meeting you. I’ll be leaving now.”

“So soon?” Oikawa blocks his path.

“Take care of Yahaba for me.” He shuffles his feet. Cold stings his nose. Gripping the hideous pink fabric of Oikawa’s jacket, he carefully steps around him.

Hands grab his. Shirabu tries to resist, but Matsukawa pulls him steadily forward, circling around a group of high schoolers. “Can’t skate?”

Hanamaki appears beside him, skating backwards. “We’ll teach you.”

“That’s not—”

Hanamaki grabs his waist and lifts Shirabu into the air. Shirabu kicks and squirms. The ground moves too fast too far below him. Vertigo threatens to overwhelm him. Digging his nails into Hanamaki’s arm, he shouts, “Put me down.”

“We call this one ‘The Inner Tsundere,’” Hanamaki says. Gently, he sets Shirabu back on the ice.

Before Shirabu can sigh in relief, Matsukawa is pulling him forward again. He guides him into sharp twists and turns. Shirabu falls. Hanamaki grabs him before he touches the ground.

“This is ‘Pinball,’” Matsukawa says in wobbling English.

“I’m going to shove a pinball machine down your throat if you don’t—”

Hanamaki grabs his hand. Matsukawa takes the other, and together they yank Shirabu forward, faster and faster. The other skaters blur around them. Shirabu’s head spins.

“This is a personal favorite,” Hanamaki cheeks.

Shirabu swallows hard. “I’m going to puke.”

Matsukawa leads them into a turn, easing to a slower pace. “We call it, ‘Arms of an Angel.’”

Hanamaki nods. “The original name ‘Sink or Swim’ was vetoed by Iwaizumi.”

“What?” Shirabu pales.

“As was ‘Titanic,’” Matsukawa adds.

“Wait—”

Hanamaki and Matsukawa let go.

Shirabu throws his arms out. People jump out of his way. With no way to stop, Shirabu closes his eyes and mumbles a prayer under his breath. He truly will die as a shivering popsicle.

Arms circle his waist. Shirabu tenses, but the arms twirl him around, slowing his momentum. “I’ve got you,” Yahaba murmurs into his hair.

Shirabu holds him tight, bunching up his jacket. His breath comes in shallow bursts. His heart pounds. Pulling Yahaba closer, he hisses, “Get me out of these skates before I murder you.”

Yahaba rubs his back with soothing circles. “If you kill me, you’re stuck out here.”

“Screw it.” Grabbing Yahaba’s jacket, Shirabu lowers himself to the ice and sits. The cold is biting. Undoing the laces, Shirabu tugs off the first skate.

Yahaba bends down and takes off the second one. “So impatient,” he mumbles. “You’ll get cold feet.”

Shirabu has cold everything. He shivers from head to toe. His socks provide scanty protection from the ice beneath him. Without his mittens and scarves, the wind slices through him, leaving his fingers and face red. Yahaba had even stripped him of one of his jackets, insisting he would overheat, but all Shirabu feels is the frozen clutches of winter dripping icicles down his spine.

Hanamaki skates around them in a halfhearted attempt for a figure eight. “Need me to carry him?”

“No,” Shirabu snaps.

Tossing Hanamaki the skates, Yahaba says, “I got it.”

“Got what?” Shirabu backs away from him. The ice burns his hands. Even without the knife shoes strapped to his feet, the pond is too slippery to do anything more than crawl backward.

Yahaba stands. He kicks his skates against the ice once, twice, and then nods to himself. Behind him, Oikawa holds up his phone like he’s recording. “We’re about to witness a murder, Mattsun.”

Shirabu scooches further back. “Yahaba,” he warns.

Yahaba looks down at him with an empty gaze, void of compassion and empathy. Shirabu has only seen him like this once before when he had to go to Yahaba’s job to bring him his keys. Instantly, he knows his fate is sealed. He will be shown no mercy.

Bending down, Yahaba hoists Shirabu into his arms. They wobble. Biting his lip, Yahaba straightens up one terrifying inch at a time.

“Drop me,” Shirabu says, “and you die.” He wraps his arms tight around his neck. If he falls, Yahaba is coming down with him.

Smile strained, Yahaba skates slowly to the edge of the pond. “I’ve lifted pandas heavier than you.”

Shirabu might almost believe him, if it weren’t for the exertion clear on his face. Not soon enough, the edge of the pond comes within reach, and with it, dry land.

“I left our stuff with an old lady over there. Can you wait for me to get your shoes?” He looks down at the snowy ground, brows furrowing. “It’s gonna be cold,” he mumbles.

“It’s fine.” Shirabu tries to put his feet down.

Yahaba’s grip tightens. Chewing his lip, he asks, “You won’t get sick again. Right?”

“I’m fine.” He tries to get down again, but Yahaba’s grip doesn’t loosen. He stares past Shirabu to the piles of snow, as if searching for the least cold spot within a vast ice cube land of cold.

Shirabu’s boots fall beside him. His confusion gives way to shock as he sees Oikawa standing there, not looking at him.

Hanamaki rubs his eyes. “Did you do something nice?”

Matsukawa gives him an appraising look. “I didn’t know he could do that.”

Glaring, Oikawa stuffs his hands in his pockets and steps back onto the ice. “I’m not being nice. I just don’t need a sick employee.”

As Yahaba finally let’s Shirabu down, he watches Hanamaki and Matsukawa hug a squirming Oikawa, undoubtedly teasing him, but then the snow touches his feet. Shirabu shivers. Quickly, he pulls on his boots.

“I’ll see you back home,” Shirabu says, tying the laces. “Don’t drink too much.”

Yahaba pulls a face. “We don’t drink with Oikawa-san.”

Based on the pain in his eyes, there’s a story there that Shirabu doesn’t want to know. “Right.” He brushes the snow off his pants. “See you then.”

Yahaba reaches out and holds his hand. “Skate with us like this. You’ll have more balance in your shoes.” He bites his lip, looking almost hopeful.

Confusion stirs in Shirabu’s stomach. “Why?”

“Because I want you to spend time with us,” Yahaba says. He tugs Shirabu playfully closer. Almost as an afterthought, he whispers, “We don’t want Oikawa-san getting suspicious.”

That can’t be right though. The whole reason they’re doing this is to fool Oikawa. Yahaba would never treat it as an afterthought. There’s no reason for Shirabu to feel so confused about this.

Still, as he steps onto the ice, an arm around Yahaba’s shoulders, he can’t help but feel like it’s something other than confusion twisting his stomach.


	10. Hook, Line, and Sinker

The clock ticks steadily. On the desk, a small cactus stretches toward the open window. Shirabu keeps his gaze on Oikawa’s impressive pen collection and pretends not to notice how Oikawa’s eyebrows are slowly rising higher and higher.

“This isn’t what we discussed,” Oikawa finally says, dropping the report.

“The revisions will cut costs,” Shirabu explains.

“No, they won’t.” Oikawa lifts one of the pages, jabbing his finger against a paragraph. “It increases travel expenditures.” Scratching his head, he mumbles, “Not to mention the international call charges.”

Shirabu nods. He knew he wouldn’t be able to slip that past Oikawa without a fight. “You’re looking at short term costs,” Shirabu says. “The long-term savings are more important.”

Oikawa flips through the report again, already shaking his head. “Location is trivial.”

“Except,” Shirabu says, “how it impacts payroll. They may be sister companies, but if the employee is on their payroll, they claim full benefits. This revision optimizes processes without sacrificing future benefits.”

“Shira-kun.” Oikawa taps the papers together against his desk until they form a neat pile. He takes off his fake glasses and sets them beside it. “Is this about Yahaba?”

“What?” The question catches him off guard. Shirabu looks around as if Yahaba has magically apparated onto Oikawa’s filing cabinet, but he isn’t there.

And if a miraculously teleportation ability isn't what prompted the sudden topic change, then Shirabu doesn’t like where this is headed.

Oikawa folds his hands on the report. “This is a crucial time. If Yahaba is distracting you—”

“Are you that upset about our relationship?” Shirabu cuts him off. “Unless you pay for his lunches on the company card, he has nothing to do with our profit margins.”

“Nothing?” Oikawa repeats.

Alarms blare in Shirabu’s head, screaming trap, trap, trap. This isn’t what he planned. He needs to answer, but all of a sudden, it seems like no answer is right.

Licking his lips, Shirabu says, “Yahaba has nothing to do with our company.”

Oikawa leans forward, his gaze sharp and calculating. “He is not involved in any decisions then?”

Shirabu opens his mouth and closes it. Silently, he nods.

Oikawa’s expression clouds into something unreadable. “You haven’t told him you’re leaving,” he says. He looks sad, almost, and tired. He leans back in his chair, but tension lines his movements.

Shirabu’s mind halts. It’s definitely a trap, one with no escape. Yahaba isn’t an employee; Shirabu shouldn’t be telling him anything. But he’s his alleged boyfriend. To admit to Oikawa of all people that he’s keeping secrets from Yahaba would be a calamity.

“Tell him,” Oikawa says suddenly.

Shirabu tenses. “What? I...” The words leave him. All of Oikawa’s cunning and condescending attitude have vanished. He stares at Shirabu with such a sobering intensity that he can only wait for what comes next.

“I’d rather tell him myself and ruin this for you,” Oikawa admits. He drums his fingers on the desk. “As much as I hate it,” he says, voice tense, “he needs to hear it from you.”

All at once, Shirabu’s scattered thoughts click together. Ennoshita’s words drift through his mind. “Don’t put off telling him,” he had said. He’d told Shirabu to trust him. Could this be what he meant?

No. Shirabu’s stomach squirms with discomfort. It’s not about Oikawa. It’s something he’s known for a while now and just didn’t want to admit.

Nodding his head, Shirabu says, “I’ll tell him.”

Oikawa stands. “You’ll tell him, or I will.”

Shirabu glares. “ _I will tell him_ ,” he repeats.

Distrust clear in his gaze, Oikawa hands back his report. “I want this revised by Monday. Come up with stronger arguments if you want me to consider this.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And, Shira-kun”—a devious smile curls his lips—“meet me at the train station tomorrow.”

Shirabu frowns. “We’re closed tomorrow.”

Oikawa’s smile sharpens. “I know.”

* * *

Guns fire, and Shirabu’s character falls to the ground. Angrily, he struggles between throwing his controller across the room and beating Taichi to death with it.

For his part, Taichi could care less either way. He equips his next weapon effortlessly and waits for Shirabu’s character to regenerate.

“You’re going down,” Shirabu vows.

Taichi stabs his character. “Okay.”

“Screw you.” Shirabu slams the buttons, but Taichi’s character has a speed advantage. Like clockwork, he dodges and strikes, over and over, until Game Over flashes on Shirabu’s side of the screen.

“We’re changing games,” Shirabu announces.

“Okay.” Taichi sets down his controller and stretches.

“Okay,” Shirabu sneers. He flips furiously through their game library. Surely, there has to be something here he can finally beat Taichi at.

Taichi sips his energy drink. “How’s the job?”

“Awful. Yours?”

“Same.”

Moving past the combat selections, Shirabu selects a racing game. Yahaba is particularly bad at those; maybe Taichi will be, too.

The screen lights up with the start menu. Shirabu goes for a fast maroon car, small enough to drive beneath falling bridges and crashing semi-trucks. Beside him, Taichi picks a lightly armored off road vehicle, and suspicion wells in Shirabu’s chest. He must be planning something.

To be safe, Shirabu starts them off in a high-end city. “How’s the girlfriend?” he asks.

“She’s decided on a spring wedding.”

The screen counts down from three. At zero, Shirabu shoots forward. “Thought she wanted a winter one.”

In an unmistakable power move, Taichi throws his car in reverse and zooms down a back alley. Shirabu panics. He pushes the car to go faster, cutting the turns as close as he can.

“She did.” The alley takes him out to a dock, and he uses a crane lift as a ramp to jump onto a rooftop. “Then she remembered it snows in Japan.”

Shirabu blasts past the halfway point. At this speed, Taichi doesn’t stand a chance. “Outdoor wedding?”

“Yep.” The rooftop reaches an end. Not slowing down, Taichi shoots over the edge. Moving crates cover the path below, and he drives over the tops of them, his car landing safely on the bridge.

Shirabu’s jaw drops. Just like that, Taichi’s car is right in front of his, taking the lead. Shirabu curses. His finger stabs the accelerate button.

The bathroom door opens. “Hey, I’m going to the store,” Yahaba calls. “I’m out of sunscreen. Need anything?”

“No,” Shirabu snaps.

“He could use some video game skills,” Taichi suggests. Fireworks explode as his car crosses the finish line in first place.

Yahaba walks closer. A towel covers his head. His hair drips from his shower, wetting his shirt. “He wouldn’t know what to do with the skill if I gave it to him,” he says.

“Hey!” He shoves Yahaba.

Unfazed, he bends down and kisses Shirabu’s cheek. “I hope you crash.”

“Get lost.” Shirabu holds down the boost button as the screen counts down on the new level. “And dry your hair properly.”

Rolling his eyes, Yahaba saunters back to the bathroom.

Taichi keeps his gaze on the game and cuts down a flight of stairs, circling around in front of Shirabu. “I see the boyfriend is doing well.”

“Fake boyfriend.” Shirabu takes a right at the fountain down a hidden shortcut. This is Yahaba’s favorite location. This time, Shirabu will have the advantage. He knows all the shortcuts.

Except the one Taichi takes when he spins the wheel, blasting through a poorly secured fence and across the highway. Glancing at Shirabu, he performs a flawless speed boost down a curling tunnel. “Does he know that?”

“Of course he does, stupid.” Shirabu’s car smashes against the wall and explodes. He stands to throw his controller.

Using one hand to cross the finish line, Taichi holds out his other to catch Shirabu’s wrist.

Keys jangling off one finger, Yahaba comes back out, his hair almost presentable this time. “I love you.” He kisses Shirabu’s temple. “Don’t break anything. Pleasure seeing you again, Kawanishi-san.”

Taichi bows his head.

Sitting back down, Shirabu starts the next level.

And loses.

Four levels pass. Taichi defeats them easily, even setting a record for the best time on one of them. Staring at the words Game Over flashing across his screen, Shirabu decides racing games were not a good idea after all. Yahaba is a can’t-drive-gay. He should have known Taichi and his future wife would be immune to such weaknesses.

“Your boss still a demon from hell?” Taichi asks. He grabs a handful of potato chips with enough salt and vinegar on them to make Shirabu cringe.

Shirabu considers the question. Kuroo is without a doubt still a demon of a team manager, but he can be tamed. He has a weakness for the soft spoken and shy. One careful request from Moniwa or Runa is enough to make him melt.

Oikawa though...

“Worse,” Shirabu decides. “He upgraded to the devil himself.”

Taichi inclines his head in that familiar invitation to continue, and Shirabu says, “He wants me to meet him at the train station tomorrow.”

“Your office is open?” Taichi asks.

“No.” Shirabu flips through the game library again. Racing and combat are out. “To be honest, I think he plans to push me in front of a train.”

Taichi nods seriously. “You should record that.”

“I’ll try to keep that in mind while dying.”

Adventure games fill the next set of slots. Perhaps working together instead of fighting against Taichi would be more productive, but the thought feels like giving up. Chewing his lip, Shirabu selects a fantasy game and hopes adding magic to the mix will give him the edge he needs.

Ever unpredictable, Taichi chooses an angel subclass character.

Shirabu can’t remember if they’re weak or strong against dark types. Not willing to take the chance, he picks an elf subclass with equal speed and strength. Taichi may have chosen a sword fighter, but Shirabu goes for a bow and arrows. He’ll need them to shoot him out of the sky.

“Is there a particular reason for the murder, or just typical weekend rage?” Taichi asks.

Shirabu flips through the stages. He needs an area with stuff to climb on to keep him close up if Taichi tries to fly out of range. “Both, probably. He’s still upset I’m fake dating Yahaba.”

“Oh.” Taichi picks up his controller. The music starts.

Shirabu equips his bow. “Oh what?”

Shirabu fires. Taichi’s character surges forward, jumping over the shot, and stabs Shirabu. Before Shirabu can react, he does a combo attack. Shirabu’s character falls dead. “Damn you!”

Taichi watches Shirabu’s character regenerate for the second round with sheer apathy. “Oh,” he repeats. “He believes you’re dating.”

His tone falls so flat, completely without inflection, that it comes off condescending. He sounds almost like Akaashi. Gritting his teeth, Shirabu asks, “What does that mean?”

Taking advantage of Shirabu’s distraction, Taichi rams Shirabu’s character through a wall. He casts a spell to defend himself, but Taichi flies above him. Shirabu knocks another arrow. Instantly, Taichi surges downward, slamming Shirabu’s character straight into the ground.

On the screen, a timer counts down asking if Shirabu wants to retry or quit.

Taichi munches on another chip. “You’re bad actors,” he mumbles.

Shirabu lets the timer hit zero. “You haven’t seen us act.”

Very few people can make Shirabu feel stupid with just a look, but Taichi is one of them. The brief glance he spares Shirabu says more than enough.

Setting down his controller, he picks up the bowl of chips and throws one into his mouth. “Who says ‘I love you’ that much anyway?”

It’s a rhetorical question, but Shirabu can’t help but say, “He watches a lot of dumb romance crap. It’s normal to him.” Awkwardly, he mumbles, “And he doesn’t say it much.”

As if unleashing a dark omen, Yahaba steps through the door. “I’m home.”

“Did you pick up any human decency for yourself?” Shirabu asks.

“No, and they were fresh out of manners for you.” Reaching into one of the bags dangling from his wrist, he pulls out a box of Shirabu’s favorite cookies. “These gross things were on sale,” he says. “Now when are you two gonna be done? I have an early shift.”

Shirabu glares at the character selection screen. He needs to beat Taichi at least once today to salvage his pride. “Take the bed,” he says, picking the angel. Maybe he can beat Taichi at his own game.

With a considerate hum, Taichi swaps to an ogre hybrid toting a giant broadsword, and Shirabu already regrets his choice.

Yahaba watches with a raised eyebrow. “Press f to pay respects for me. Love you.” Kissing the top of Shirabu’s head, he disappears into the bedroom.

Taichi spares him a look that says “I told you so.” Before Shirabu can complain, the match starts. Shirabu takes to the air. He fires a volley of arrows, but Taichi blocks them with his shield.

“Our acting is good enough to fool Oikawa,” Shirabu says. “That’s all that matters.”

The new arena has no platforms to jump on. Without them, Taichi can only wait for Shirabu to come back to the ground. He’s safe.

Taichi charges his sword. Shirabu flies higher.

“The only person you’re fooling...” Taichi throws the sword.

The blade slices through Shirabu’s wings, and his character crashes to the ground. Without mercy, Taichi’s character picks him up and smashes him into the wall, then throws his body over the edge.

“—Is yourself.”

* * *

Thirty-two loses later, Shirabu all but throws Taichi out of the house. His head hurts. Burying a yawn in his sleeve, he spoons their leftover dinner into Tupperware containers for Yahaba to raid later.

The clock casts a green glow over the dark room. Shirabu stares at the numbers for a solid thirty seconds without reading them. It’s late. He may not have to be up for work in the morning, but Oikawa will be expecting him at the station bright and early.

Shirabu drags his feet to the couch, but the thought of sleeping there after the nightmare he just went through is too much. It’s his night for the bed anyway. Running a hand along the wall to keep from tripping, he feels his way through the dark apartment to the bedroom.

“Wake up.” Shirabu throws open the door. Pitch black fills the room except for the corner where Yahaba’s nightlight glows faint turquoise.

Shirabu yanks the covers off him. “Wake up. Kawanishi’s gone.”

Yahaba groans into his pillow.

Climbing into the bed, Shirabu shakes him. “Come on. The faster you get up, the faster you go back to sleep.”

Yahaba weakly smacks his hands. With his eyes shut, he hits himself more times than he manages to hit Shirabu. “Go away,” he whines.

Shirabu sighs. He’s too tired for this. At this rate, it may be easier to just take the damn couch and give Yahaba hell for it later.

Cracking open his eyes, Yahaba reaches out and grabs Shirabu’s hand. “Wait.”

“What?” Shirabu asks around a yawn.

“Sleep here.” Yahaba snuggles deeper into his pillow. “I get up in a few hours; you get the bed to yourself the rest of the night. We”—a yawn breaks his sentence. “We each get half the night alone.”

That sounds like a horrible plan. Shirabu opens his mouth to tell him so, but he yawns instead. Body sagging, he lies down despite himself.

“This is dumb,” he mumbles.

Yahaba pulls the covers over himself like the greedy blanket hog he is, and Shirabu grabs the edge of it, yanking it to cover them both. Unperturbed, Yahaba only nuzzles into Shirabu’s side, already asleep again.

“Idiot.” Shirabu brushes his hair away from his eyes. His face is softer like this, free of judgement and thinly veiled anger and all the stress he carries on his shoulders like an anchor tied to a ship.

He’s beautiful.

Turning onto his side, Shirabu presses their foreheads together. “This is still fake,” he whispers.

“Right?”


	11. What A Zoo

The train speeds along the tracks, somehow moving too fast and too slow all at once. Children whisper excitedly amongst themselves. An old man dressed like a video game character snores in the corner of the car.

A bad feeling wells in Shirabu’s stomach. It plagued him when he first woke up in bed alone to an alarm set an hour later than normal, and the feeling has only grown stronger since he met up with Oikawa at the station.

The landscape blurs outside of the window. Shirabu’s gone this direction before. His grandmother lives somewhere in this area, not that he’s visited her since he came out in high school. There are a few specialty stores around here that he visits once or twice a year when the occasion calls for it.

The most recent time, he had to deliver a set of keys, a lunchbox, and a safety report on the art of taking a lion’s temperature without getting your hands bitten off.

Like a stone sinking to the bottom of a lake, Shirabu’s dread grows stronger as one child pulls out a box of animal crackers, sharing them with a sibling who is coloring a picture of an elephant.

Beside him, Oikawa texts someone with a contact name of “Iwa-chan” surrounded by heart and lizard emojis. For his part, this Iwa-chan seems to be against whatever Oikawa’s grand scheme is, Shirabu notes based on his increasingly angry messages.

Oikawa catches Shirabu’s gaze. “Iwa-chan says this is a great idea and to have fun.”

Shirabu ignores the blatant lie. “I don’t know who that is.”

Oikawa gasps, jumping from his seat. Shirabu shrinks back.

“You don’t know _Iwa-chan_?” Oikawa clutches his chest. “What has Yahaba been telling you?”

“Uhh...” Shirabu glances around for an escape route.

“Iwa-chan is the greatest person on this planet,” he declares. “Second only to myself, Yahaba, Makki, and my nephew.”

Shirabu stares at him blankly.

Thoroughly scandalized, Oikawa thrust his phone in Shirabu’s face. On the screen is a picture of a man lifting weights. Oikawa flips through more pictures rapidly, and Shirabu catches brief glimpses of the same man playing video games, hitting Oikawa, holding a large lizard, shoving Oikawa, arm wrestling Hanamaki, and kicking Oikawa.

He seems like Shirabu’s type of person.

He does look familiar though. Their small apartment and shared bedroom situation don’t allow for much decorating, but Shirabu thinks he’s seen pictures of this guy before taped to Yahaba’s notebook and stuck to the refrigerator with magnets.

Whoever he is, it’s clear they went to high school together, and Shirabu smirks. “He’s Yahaba’s favorite senpai.”

“Rude!” Oikawa snatches his phone away. “Iwa-chan is a brute. Everyone prefers me. Even Mad Dog-chan,” he says, but his voice trails off, as if he’s leaving out the parts that reveal that this kouhai does not prefer Oikawa over the other seniors in the slightest.

Shirabu opens his mouth to tease him further, but the little children start to squeal in delight. The train slows. Through the window, a billboard confirms Shirabu’s worst fear.

Oikawa shoots him a victorious smile. “We’re here.”

Shirabu sighs. Parents usher their children out, and he falls in line behind them. A few teenaged couples slip through the crowd headed the same way, hand in hand.

“It’s terrible weather for this,” Shirabu mutters.

“Hmm?” Oikawa leans closer. “A terrible time? To see your boyfriend? Oh dear, what an attitude.”

Shirabu glares at him. “I’ll see him at home tonight, without having to stand in the snow.”

Oikawa rolls his eyes. “It’s not snowing.”

“Yet,” Shirabu adds.

“A little cold weather won’t kill you.”

“Yet,” Shirabu adds.

“My, my, I never took you for the petulant type.” Oikawa shakes his head, arms crossed over his chest, looking far more petulant than Shirabu has ever been.

Stuffing his hands in his pockets, Shirabu bites down on a retort. The last thing he needs now is to fuel him on, or worse, give Oikawa a chance to feed his own ego. He just needs to survive this nightmare of a weekend. Maybe he’ll even get lucky and witness Oikawa getting splashed by a dolphin.

Colorful signs point them to their destination. The zoo was built in a prime area, not far from the station. It takes them less than a few minutes to cross beneath the welcoming banner of zebras and monkeys.

“This can’t possibly get worse,” Shirabu mumbles under his breath.

A man approaches them with a camera. “Would you like me to take a picture of you and your brother?”

Shirabu cringes. Beside him, Oikawa pulls a nauseated face.

“ _Now_ , it can’t get worse,” Shirabu corrects.

“Come on, Jirou-chan—”

“Jirou-chan?”

Ignoring him, Oikawa wraps an arm around his shoulders and leads him to the directory. “We’re not at work. No need for formalities,” he says, as if he had ever been formal with Shirabu to begin with. “This will be a fun day. Let’s start with a game.”

Shirabu arcs an eyebrow. “Is this where you trick me into selling my soul?”

“No.” He hands him a map. “This is where we relax. Too much stress causes wrinkles, don’t’cha know?” Not waiting for answer, he says, “I have an idea. Let’s race. Whoever finds Yahaba first wins.”

Shirabu’s eyes narrow. He stares at Oikawa, waiting for a punchline that doesn’t come. He almost expects Oikawa to laugh maniacally like a villain and declare that Yahaba has been tied to the train tracks located conveniently nearby.

When he doesn’t, Shirabu sighs and pulls out his phone. “I can just text him...” he trails off.

Oikawa is gone. Leaning around the directory, Shirabu thinks he can see him running full speed towards the giraffe exhibit, his only evidence that he didn’t just crawl back into hell while Shirabu was distracted.

He’s too tired for this. The probability that Oikawa didn’t already ask Yahaba for his location before they even arrived is astronomical, but Shirabu texts him anyway. He might as well warn him of Oikawa’s strange, childish scheme.

If what Yahaba said was true, this zoo specializes in biology research and the rehabilitation of injured animals. Shirabu knows from Yahaba’s stories that he works in various enclosures picked out by his supervisors, but for the most part he spends his time in the clinic or the research lab. With this in mind, Shirabu wanders towards some of the smaller displays where Yahaba is least likely to be. “Let Oikawa find him,” Shirabu mumbles. He’s not here for stupid games, and he’s certainly not about to incur Oikawa’s petty wrath by winning the games he specifically cultivated for Shirabu to lose.

Naked mole rats climb around in their little boxes. Moving north, he finds a seemingly empty cage with a sign stating there are sugar gliders hidden somewhere inside. A peacock struts leisurely down one of the pathways, eliciting polite applause from nearby visitors.

Benches curve around a sculpted fountain. Shirabu sits in a shady spot and stares into the frozen water.

Yahaba hasn’t answered his text yet. He half expected this. Yahaba is terrible at answering messages at the best of times. Still, it feels wrong to be here without him knowing, like an invasion of privacy.

The whole thing feels wrong. Oikawa shouldn’t be trying to ruin a relationship for his kouhai, even if he hates Shirabu. For his part, Shirabu shouldn’t be hanging out with one of his managers outside of work. He thinks back to the ice skating disaster. To the genuine smile that lit up Oikawa’s face when Hanamaki twirled him around on the ice.

To the warmth that filled Shirabu’s chest when Yahaba caught him in his arms.

To the hollow feeling he woke up to this morning when he found himself alone in the bed.

Horse hooves clop along the pavers. Looking up, Shirabu finds Kuguri leading two miniature ponies back from the clinic.

Kuguri regards him with an empty stare, but a sliver of warmth softens his face. He inclines his head.

“Hey.” Shirabu bows. “Is Yahaba on lunch?”

Leaning his head back, Kuguri looks up at the sky as if the clouds might spell out Yahaba’s whereabouts. “I’m not sure.”

“Thanks anyway.” Shirabu watches him leave, a swarm of children running after him to pet the horses.

Overhead, clouds cover the sun. The promise of snow hangs heavy in their gray waves, rolling endlessly across the sky. He should head inside. According to the map, there’s an indoor reptile display. That must be the warmest place.

Shirabu circles the fountain. The exhibits look far too similar. Taking a right, he heads down a small pathway decorated with fake animal tracks. If he’s reading this correctly, the reptile center should be just up ahead.

Medical equipment lines the windows of the nearest building. Baby lemurs sleep inside some kind of incubator. In the next room over, a woman examines a sleeping koala. It must be a special nursery, Shirabu realizes as he passes a tiny parrot, its wing bound in medical tape.

Looking into the next room, Shirabu stops cold.

A baby cheetah pounces on a metal table. With a gentle smile, Yahaba wraps her in a towel. She nuzzles into his hand, allowing him to scratch behind her ears, and he offers her a bottle to drink from.

Hesitantly, Shirabu steps closer.

Yahaba doesn’t seem to notice. Instead, he cradles the cub in his arms, whispering reassurances to her as she finishes her bottle.

Shirabu imagines he can hear him through the glass. It would be that soft voice he uses when he’s humming to himself in the kitchen making tea. The same one he spoke to Yachi in when she was nervous about taking pictures of them, and that kind, almost sleepy tone he took on when one of his kouhai called him in a late-night panic for emergency homework help.

Shirabu doesn’t hear the footsteps until Oikawa is right beside him. “People show their true colors around animals,” he says.

Silently, Shirabu nods.

A smile curves Oikawa’s lips as he watches Yahaba rock the cheetah to sleep. “They show them when watching someone they love, too.”

“He loves every animal,” Shirabu mutters, but he knows that’s not what Oikawa means long before he turns to give Shirabu that dumb, accusatory look.

It’s another trap in its own right. Every exchange with Oikawa has become an obstacle, dancing around what not to say, what the right answers might be. Taking a calming breath, Shirabu doesn’t let himself think too hard about it. “I don’t love him.” It’s the truth, he tells himself. “It’s only been a few months,” he mumbles, but he’s not sure if it’s supposed to reassure Oikawa or himself.

Oikawa turns his gaze back to Yahaba with an appraising hum. “You don’t love him yet. The question is, will there _be_ a yet?”

Behind the window, Yahaba returns the cheetah to her cage, easing her gently from the towel.

“Yes,” Shirabu lies, “that’s what long distance relationships are for.” The words sting in all the places they shouldn’t.

“You won’t last that long,” Oikawa says.

Shirabu glares. “Stop trying to break us up.”

“Me?” Oikawa places a hand over his chest. “I would never.” Self-righteous smile firmly in place, he adds, “You’re doing a good job of that all on your own.”

Shirabu side eyes him. “You gave permission to be informal, correct, sir?”

Oikawa glances from him to Yahaba. Taking a conspicuous step to the side, farther away from Shirabu, he says, “Yes.”

He nods his head toward the reptile center. “Kindly go feed yourself to an alligator, Oikawa-san.”

“Your uncouth personality is highly unattractive, Jirou-chan.” His smile twisting into something sinister, he raises his hand. “What an absolute shame it would be if someone else heard that.”

“What are you—”

Oikawa knocks on the window.

Yahaba jumps. Papers fly out of his hands. Oikawa ducks out of sight.

Shirabu takes a step back, but he’s too late. Yahaba stares at him. His lips part in surprise, curling into a radiant smile like a thin beam of sunlight shining through the clouds.

Leaning close to the glass, Yahaba mouths, “Wait here.”

Shirabu freezes. Swallowing hard, he gives a slight nod.

Yahaba rushes around the room grabbing his dropped papers and returning supplies to their containers. Something clatters to the floor. Throwing a glance over his shoulder to make sure Shirabu’s still there, he disappears through a doorway.

Shirabu tilts his head back and watches the first snowflake fall from the sky. So, this was Oikawa’s plan all along. His attempts to keep Shirabu away from Yahaba didn’t work nor did trying to make Shirabu look bad in front of him. Shirabu has to give Oikawa credit for finally coming up with a decent plan; if anyone were to mess things up with Yahaba, it would be Shirabu himself.

“Hey.” Yahaba jogs up to him. His hair looks hastily brushed, and goosebumps rise on his bare arms.

“Where’s your jacket?” Shirabu asks.

“Oh.” He looks down, as if only just noticing. His teeth chatter. “Inside. Don’t worry, I’m fine. Did...” Biting his lip, he scratches the back of his neck. “Did I forget something?”

“Yes.” Shirabu stares at him. “Your jacket.”

Yahaba rolls his eyes. “No, I mean at home. The last time you came here was because I forgot some stuff. Even then I had to twist your arm to get you here.”

Pulling off his scarf, Shirabu wraps it around Yahaba’s neck. He refuses to remove his hat, but the mittens he can spare, he decides, tugging them off.

The cold has already turned Yahaba’s nose red, his cheeks burning pink. Shirabu helps him slide the mittens onto his hands. It’s a pathetic attempt to keep him warm, but at least he’ll still have all his fingers by the time he goes back inside.

Except, he leads Shirabu away from the insulted buildings, back towards the fountain. “Have you been here long? I can, you know”—he gestures randomly—“show you around?”

“No.” Shirabu shoves his hands into his pockets. “We got here a half hour ago.”

“We?” Yahaba tilts his head.

“Oikawa.” He looks around, almost expecting to see Oikawa’s chocolate hair sticking out from behind a hedge, but he’s nowhere in sight. Shirabu knows he can’t be too far away, though. He’ll linger close in case Shirabu screws up somehow, that way he can watch the mistake up close and in person.

“Oh.” His crestfallen tone draws Shirabu’s attention. He glances at him, but Yahaba straightens up, pulling on that rehearsed pleasant smile of his. “You should’ve told me sooner,” he whispers, wrapping an arm around Shirabu’s shoulders.

Shirabu shivers. “You’re freezing.”

“Be more boyfriend-ly then, and offer to get me hot chocolate,” he whispers.

Closing his eyes, Shirabu lets out a deep sigh. “Why don’t I buy you hot chocolate?” he asks, the words stiff and mechanical.

“Great idea, angel.” Yahaba steers him left through a sculpture garden. Stone zebras guard the path. A bear towers over them. Zigzagging around two roaring lions, he cuts through a hedge. “Kuguri-kun says this is the fastest way.”

Shirabu trips over a stray tree root. “He would know.”

Yahaba nods. “His laziness is inspiring. He puts more effort into it than Kunimi does.”

“That’s an oxymoron,” he mumbles, but he can see Yahaba’s point. From what Shirabu’s heard about Kunimi, he’s the type to nap out in the open, unashamed. Kuguri on the other hand carries a certain level of pride in his workmanship that compels him to search out the best places to hide for his naps. Whether it is pride for his job or pride for his naps, Shirabu still hasn’t figured out.

Slipping an arm around Yahaba’s waist, he lets his gaze drift over the benches and plaques. A fake great white shark dangles from two posts next to a sign cautioning ocean pollution. A hanging manatee and a sea lion poised on a ball are positioned on either side. Beyond, a mini carnival rests like a slumbering ghost town.

Shirabu doesn’t believe in ghosts, but Ennoshita’s words haunt him. “Don’t put off telling him,” he’d said. Shirabu put it off anyway, and now he has to pay the price of dealing with Oikawa on his day off.

It doesn’t feel like a punishment anymore though, not with Yahaba beside him.

Shirabu glances at him. “Yahaba?”

“It’s just up here. What?” He smirks. “Scared of rides?”

“Be less stupid.” Shirabu walks past the carousel, the eyes of still zebras and gazelles following him long after they’re out of sight. He wonders if they’re judging him, too.

Glancing around for Oikawa, Yahaba whispers, “Wanna get separate bills?”

“You get free drinks, and you know it, turkey boy.” Shirabu nudges him, their heads bumping together, and Yahaba snickers.

“Two please.” He smiles at the employee, flashing his identification badge.

“Yahaba?” Shirabu tries again.

“Hmm?” He accepts both cups, holding one out for Shirabu.

He doesn’t take it. “How long... do you think we’ll be together?” he asks.

“Forever.” Yahaba kisses his nose. He pushes the cup into Shirabu’s hand, curling his fingers around it.

Shirabu stares down at the heart shaped marshmallows as they dissolve into unrecognizable lumps in the chocolate. “I mean for real.”

“I don’t know.” Wrapping an arm around Shirabu, he seamlessly leads him away from the employee. “How much longer ‘til you win this bet with Oikawa-san?”

“It’s not a bet,” Shirabu mumbles.

“Well, whatever it is.” Yahaba sips his drink. The chocolate burns his tongue, and he tenses, fanning his mouth. “Hot. Hot.”

“Stupid.” Shirabu leans his head on his shoulder. Before them, two baby pandas curl up together for a nap.

“That’s Takumi and Spot.” Yahaba points to each.

“Spot. Real original—ow!”

“They can hear you,” Yahaba warns.

Shirabu rubs his side, glaring, but Yahaba keeps his gaze on the pandas as if he didn’t just elbow him.

A third panda joins the slumber party. Yahaba sighs wistfully. “They look so warm.” He finishes his hot chocolate, and with nothing else to protect him, he sips Shirabu’s drink as well, his burned mouth forgotten.

“Go put a jacket on,” Shirabu says.

Ignoring him, Yahaba hugs himself. “I’m fine.” His teeth chatter. “The penguin enclosure is colder.”

“You’re useless,” Shirabu sighs. Unzipping his jacket, he hugs Yahaba tight. His arms slip around Shirabu’s waist like icicles. “You’re supposed to be a human furnace,” he grumbles, snuggling his face into Yahaba’s shoulder, pressing his nose into his scarf.

“Says the ice king who’s always cold,” Yahaba mumbles.

A chill has settled into Yahaba’s skin; Shirabu rubs his back, hoping to chase it away. “You’re not allowed to get sick,” he warns.

Yahaba hums. “Not even a little?” His hand slips beneath Shirabu’s jacket experimentally, and when Shirabu doesn’t object, the other follows, moving up to steal the heat from his shoulder blades.

“One sneeze,” Shirabu says, “and I’m calling the cops.”

“How ‘bout you take care of me instead?” Yahaba nuzzles into Shirabu’s hair, pressing kisses against his temple, his cheek, his jaw, anything he can reach.

Shirabu fingers curl into his shirt. A different kind of heat builds in his chest with each kiss Yahaba trails down his neck. His heart hammers. Lifting his head, Shirabu leans in to kiss him.

“I love you,” Yahaba murmurs.

The words ghost across Shirabu’s lips, close enough to taste, but they freeze him in place.

That’s right. He’s just acting for Oikawa. The only thing real here is the shattered feeling in Shirabu’s chest, like a candle doused in icy water.

It’s fake.

Shirabu was stupid to think otherwise.

But he’s never known Yahaba to be a good actor, no matter what he told Taichi last night.

Yahaba will never be honest for as long as he thinks Oikawa is watching, though. Shirabu needs to get him alone. He needs a plan. Tearing his gaze from Yahaba’s lips, he whispers, “What are you doing tonight?”

Like a star blazing to life, Yahaba’s eyes light up. “Kuguri-kun and I are going to the biology institute. The director is friends with a scientist there. She put in a good word for us.” His excitement overpowers the plummeting temperature, and he lets Shirabu go, gesturing broadly around them. “We’re one step closer to being real biologists.”

Shirabu shivers at the sudden lack of warmth. “Yeah?” He zips up his jacket, breathing on his hands to heat them up.

“Yeah, I guess.” He casts a sad glance beyond the pandas. “I think Kuguri-kun might stay here. The hours are hell, but he’s got insomnia like you.” His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “He loves the animals. You know he and his boyfriend clean up the beach on weekends?”

Shirabu tries to imagine Kuguri cleaning; nothing comes to mind.

He must have made a face, because Yahaba shrugs. “His boyfriend probably does most of the cleaning,” he concedes. “But he does love the animals.” Gaze softening, he watches a panda walk closer. “I’ll miss them.”

Shirabu leans against the handrail. “What about your internship?”

“I’ll finish it there,” he says. “I might stay there permanently, or I can ask this scientist to put in a good word for me at another facility in a year when it’s over.”

“You’re leaving, too, then.” Shirabu watches his breath form white puffs. Above him, the clouds can’t seem to decide if they want to snow or not, dropping snowflakes only by the handful. It matches the storm in his mind. He really does need to tell Yahaba the truth.

Smirking, Yahaba traps Shirabu in a hug and sways him from side to side. “Like I’d ever leave you, angel.”

“Get off.” Shirabu shoves at him. “You smell like wet dog.”

“Say the magic words,” Yahaba singsongs.

Shirabu glares. “I’m not a magician, dammit. Enough.” He tries to push him away. “Alright. _Please_.”

“Nope.”

Shirabu frowns. Through his jacket, he can feel Yahaba shivering. “Let’s go somewhere warm?” he tries again.

“Bingo. C’mon.” He grabs Shirabu’s hand. “They’re doing the exhibits inside for the children.”

“You’re such a dork,” Shirabu mumbles, but looking at Yahaba’s beaming smile, his eyes crinkling in the corners as a rosy blush glows along his cheeks, Shirabu doesn’t think he minds that anymore.

He’ll tell him. But first—Shirabu squeezes Yahaba’s hand—he’ll give Oikawa the report of a lifetime. Anything to buy himself more time with Yahaba.


	12. One Step Forward, One Step Back

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song Yahaba sings, in case anyone was curious: [Hurry Xmas](https://youtu.be/6VWYdqgjQbs)

Green bristles irritate his skin. The smell upsets his nose. Holding it up higher, Shirabu says, “I forgot what this abomination is called.”

“It’s a wreath.” Ennoshita takes it from him and hangs it on a hook.

Shirabu picks up the next item from the box. It’s colorful, and, more importantly, it doesn’t smell. “A candelabra,” he says.

Ennoshita’s smile is torn somewhere between amused and pained. “A menorah.” Moving the ladder over to the next hook, he climbs up and hangs this decoration, too.

Shirabu gazes around the office at walls draped in garland. Snowflakes and dreidels dangle from the ceiling. Rows of beads paint the room in shades of gold and red. Someone has tied Futakuchi to the Christmas tree like a winter sacrifice. “It’s too festive,” he decides.

Climbing down, Ennoshita appraises the room with his chin in his hand. “It’s a good change of pace.”

Shirabu nods his head toward the Christmas tree. “Can we light the Futakuchi?”

Ennoshita hums. He turns that direction, and his eyes widen. With a sigh from deep within, he walks over to untie him.

Shirabu follows. “What was his crime?”

Usuri doesn’t look up from his phone. “He was passing out Santa hats and calling them our ‘government issued propaganda.’”

With an even deeper sigh, Ennoshita starts re-tying him up. Dutifully, Terushima places fake presents around his feet.

“Yamaguchi-kun is passing them out now,” Runa says. “Would anyone like cake? Hana-san made it.”

Futakuchi wiggles his fingers. With his arms bound and a candy cane in his mouth, it’s the most he can manage.

“I left yours on your desk, Futakuchi-senpai.”

Terushima chokes.

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Ennoshita says, “You don’t have to call him senpai.”

“But Futakuchi-senpai said—”

Overhearing her, Moniwa places a hand on her shoulder. “You don’t need to call him senpai.” He bows. “I am deeply sorry for anything he’s put you through.”

Shirabu uses the distraction to sneak back to his desk. Honestly, decorating is a huge waste of time. They’ll just have to take it all down in less than two weeks when they change over their calendars to the new year.

So few days left. Absently, Shirabu turns a snow globe over in his hands. White obscures the tiny village inside, and he shakes it harder.

Someone snickers.

A giggle follows.

Shirabu looks around to see what idiotic thing his coworkers have started now, but Terushima is miraculously tame, busy stealing cake from Runa when she’s not looking. Moniwa takes pity on Futakuchi and releases him from his tree prison.

Holding his head in his hands, Ennoshita looks ready to quit.

Muffled laughter echoes around Shirabu from multiple sides, and a sinking feeling settles in his stomach.

He looks around the room again, this time more slowly. No signs of Oikawa or Kuroo. By the tree, Usuri tells the new recruits a lie about killer snowmen. An intern hangs stockings on the bulletin board.

In the middle of the room, Yahaba watches him with that annoyingly amused smile.

“Why are you here?” Shirabu checks his desk, but his lunch is already there. None of his files are missing either. His foreboding grows, but it can’t quite overshadow the excited feeling in his chest that has begun plaguing him whenever Yahaba is around.

“I’m going to some foreign restaurant with Oikawa-san.” He doesn’t come closer. Instead, his smile grows, and he hides it behind his hand.

Shirabu leans back in his seat. “I’m used to thinking my coworkers are laughing at me behind my back, but having actual sound effects sucks.”

“Hmm.” Pretending to think, he finally approaches. “Maybe they’re laughing at your lopsided haircut?”

Shirabu pretends to yawn.

“Or...” He traces his finger along Shirabu’s desk. “It could be your inability to use a fax machine like a normal person.”

“Futakuchi is my fax machine,” Shirabu says.

“Then it must be”—his hand dips beneath Shirabu’s chin, tilting his head back—“that.”

From the ceiling, an ugly plant dangles directly above Shirabu’s desk. White berries hang delicately from rich green leaves. A brilliant bow ties the whole thing off, but Shirabu can’t seem to find the joke. “Holly?”

Yahaba kisses his forehead. “Mistletoe.”

Someone whistles. An accountant mumbles, “Finally.”

Heat burns Shirabu’s face. Yahaba leans in for another kiss, but Shirabu jumps out of his chair. Their heads smack together. Staggering back, Shirabu snatches the snow globe off his desk to throw at the mistletoe.

Terushima grabs his arm. On his other side, Futakuchi pries the snow globe from his grasp.

“Okay, that’s enough of that.” Ennoshita marches over with his ladder.

“Aww, but Chikara-san,” Terushima whines. He presses a sloppy kiss to Shirabu’s cheek, and he hisses.

“Mistletoe never hurt anyone,” Futakuchi adds. Shirabu tries to push him away, but Futakuchi grabs his hand, trailing wet kisses up his arm. Lip curled in disguist, Shirabu stomps on his foot.

Ennoshita ruthlessly cuts the mistletoe down. “Talk about an H.R. nightmare,” he grumbles.

Yahaba’s arms wrap around Shirabu protectively from behind. “So, you have _that_ kind of relationship with your secretary,” he teases.

Futakuchi winks.

Leaning his chin on Shirabu’s shoulder, Yahaba says, “You could aim higher.”

“I am the superior Kenji,” Futakuchi reminds him. Proudly, he pushes a button, and the fake antlers on his head light up.

Yahaba considers Futakuchi’s evidence. The antlers were an excellent show, but Yahaba’s lips curl with that Seijoh smile, promising he is up to no good. “Doesn’t that make you a fifty-percent off Kenjirou?”

“Twenty-five,” Shirabu corrects. “He’s not even a worthwhile sale.”

Yahaba kisses the side of his head. “I only like luxury Kenjirous.”

Futakuchi’s eye twitches. “I’ll show you luxury, you—”

Ennoshita shoves a candy cane in his mouth. “Please refrain from being yourselves.”

Angrily, Futakuchi bites the candy cane in half. Out of the corner of his eye, Shirabu watches Usuri run away with the mistletoe, and he makes a reminder for himself to exact revenge later.

Reaching into his pocket, Ennoshita pulls out a fidget spinner and sends Terushima away with it. Next, he procures a picture of Moniwa—his face decidedly sad—and Futakuchi slinks off, hissing.

“You’re oddly prepared,” Shirabu notes.

“You think so?” Ennoshita smiles without looking at him. “Oh. I’ve got something for you, too.” Reaching into his other pocket, he pulls out two tickets. “These are for the science museum.”

Shirabu takes them, frowning. “ _Extremely prepared_.”

“Let’s go this weekend,” Yahaba says. “Please? It’ll be fun. You remember how to have fun, right?”

“Shut up.” He elbows him. Casting one last suspicious glance at Ennoshita who has already hurried away, he tucks the tickets into his pocket.

“Such a stick in the mud,” Yahaba complains.

Shirabu tilts his head back to look up at him. “You’re ten minutes late for lunch.”

Yahaba pales. Pressing a hurried kiss to Shirabu’s cheek, he dashes to Oikawa’s office, leaving Shirabu behind with even more questions.

* * *

Today, the fake glasses are worn by the cactus. Shirabu stares at it for whatever hidden meaning must be there, but his efforts are futile. He still doesn’t know why Oikawa has fake glasses to begin with.

“It’s compelling,” Oikawa grudgingly admits. His red pen leaves less corrections than normal, even placing checkmarks of approval here and there. Shirabu’s chest swells with pride, but he keeps his gaze on the cactus, mouth pressed into a thin line.

“I want this number minimized.” He circles it twice.

“Yes, sir.”

He clicks his pen a few times. “Are you sure about this, Jirou-chan?”

“We are at work—”

“You’re dating my kouhai. You have stooped below the laws of formality.” Oikawa clicks the pen one more time.

Shirabu glares. “Is this Futakuchi related?”

“Futacchi?” Oikawa tilts his head, the picture of feigned innocence. “Should it be?”

Shirabu tucks the knowledge of this nickname away in his memory for later. “No. Stay on task, please.”

Oikawa’s gaze narrows. Reluctantly, he turns back to the report. “Osamu-kun is okay with this, too, yes?”

“Yes.” It was a last-minute decision to pull Osamu into the assignment but a necessary sacrifice. Shirabu needs someone he can trust. Ennoshita’s field is too limited. Usuri and Akaashi are untamed wild cards. Yamaguchi and Runa lack experience, while Futakuchi and Terushima lack brains. “I gave him a brief summary,” Shirabu says. “He has no objections.”

Oikawa raises an eyebrow. “And Yahaba?”

“No objections.” Not yet, at least. Shirabu would have to talk to him about it first. It won’t matter, though. Yahaba had been okay with the initial plan where Shirabu left forever. Why wouldn’t he be okay with the revised plan?

Oikawa searches his face for dishonesty, but years of handling Semi have well prepared him for this moment. Shirabu keeps his expression blank, gaze neutral.

“Get that number down, and I’ll submit the report for final approval,” Oikawa relents. “I need it done before the holiday party. You will be bringing Yahaba, yes?” he asks in a tone that leaves no room for argument.

“Yes.”

“Wear something festive,” Oikawa says.

“I respectfully decline.” Shirabu stands and collects his report.

“So formal, Jirou-chan,” Oikawa teases.

Shirabu bows his head. “Kindly throw yourself away.”

“Such a dreadful personality.” Clicking his tongue, he leans his head against his fist. “I can’t fathom where I went wrong with Yahaba that he ended up with you.”

Walking to the exit, Shirabu pauses. Yahaba undeniably shares whatever strange spirit of chaos posses every Seijoh graduate Shirabu has encountered so far, but the idea that Oikawa helped shape Yahaba in some way is still foreign to Shirabu.

But Yahaba thinks the world of Oikawa. For him to have that level of respect, Oikawa must have done something important for him. The knowledge makes it a little harder for Shirabu to hate him, even if his neckties are all the same shade of Kool-Aid pink.

“Whatever you did, keep it up.” Shirabu casts one last glance at Oikawa and says, “Yahaba is the only thing you’ve ever gotten right.”

* * *

Shirabu opens the apartment door. A Christmas tree lights up the living room. Shirabu shuts the door.

“Get in here,” Yahaba shouts.

Shirabu counts to three. Taking a deep breath, he opens the door and steps inside. “This is Japan,” he says.

Yahaba smiles down at him from on top of a precariously balanced chair. “It’s Christmas.”

“We are Japanese. We don’t celebrate Christmas,” Shirabu argues. He eyes the chair uncertainly. “Why are you up there?”

“My arms got tired.” He hangs a colorful ball on a branch. “This is easier.”

It’s a violation of at least a dozen safety codes. Stepping closer, Shirabu finds himself torn between making him get down and yanking the chair out from under him. Both options have pros and cons. If he gets him down, Yahaba will be safe, but then what will Shirabu have to laugh about in this dreary world?

The chair wobbles. Despite himself, he holds Yahaba by the waist to keep him steady.

Yahaba squirms. “Stop. I’m ticklish.”

“You’re foolish,” Shirabu mutters. Carefully, he slides his hands down to Yahaba’s hips before he accidentally tickles him into an early grave.

Yahaba rolls his eyes. Lifting two decorations, he compares them side by side, before deciding on the blue one.

“There is no need for this,” Shirabu says.

A mischievous smile curves Yahaba’s lips.

Realization hits Shirabu too late. “Don’t.”

“ _There was no need to_ ,” Yahaba sings.

Shirabu covers his ears. “I hate Christmas music.”

“ _Aah, a dream filled by these glittering streets_ ,” Yahaba sings. He hops down, the chair immediately falling over, and throws his arms around Shirabu.

“No.” Shirabu tries to push him away.

Yahaba pulls him closer, twirling him in circles. “ _Hurry Christmas_ ,” he sings. “ _Snatching the night sky into the candles flames_.” Caressing Shirabu’s cheek, he sings, “ _The stars reflecting in the eyes of dear ones_.”

“This is a terrible song.” Shirabu stomps on his foot.

“I love this one. C’mon, sing with me.” Taking Shirabu’s hands, he moves them to his waist. “Here, like this.”

“I know how to dance,” Shirabu protests. He tries to walk away, but Yahaba throws a string of golden garland around him, pulling him close again.

“Then dance with me.” Yahaba drapes his arms around his neck.

Sighing, Shirabu wraps his arms around his waist and lets him lead. In a startling show of mercy, Yahaba stops singing, humming the tune instead. The garland tickles Shirabu’s neck, tangling around their legs. Unperturbed, Yahaba spins him around.

“We’re going to trip,” Shirabu warns.

“That only happens in movies.” Yahaba pulls him close, their noses brushing together. Sliding his hands up Shirabu’s back, he lowers him into a dip.

Blood rushes to his head. “Tripping only happens in movies?” Shirabu asks, sarcasm thick on his tongue. “Have you finally reached that level of stupid?”

Yahaba leans down and kisses Shirabu’s cheek. Warm breath ghosts across Shirabu’s ear. Softly, he whispers, “Long live the king.”

Shirabu’s eyes widen.

Yahaba drops him.

Shirabu hits the ground. The tree skirt cushions his head. Groaning, he kicks at Yahaba, but the garland tightens around his legs, ruining his aim. “Traitor.”

“Oh no, Shirabu.” Yahaba covers his mouth in mock surprise. “I thought people only trip in movies.”

Shirabu kicks again. “Screw you.” Annoyed, he yanks the garland off. “That is the last time I dance with you.”

“Aww.” Yahaba kneels over him. “But what about the holiday party?”

Shirabu throws the garland in his face. “Who told you about that?”

“Oikawa-san.” Selecting a bow from his box of decorations, he sticks it to the top of Shirabu’s head. “He also said he and Hanamaki-san will be the cutest couple there, so we need to be cuter than them.”

“Gross.”

Straddling Shirabu’s hips, he says, “It won’t be easy. Hanamaki-san lacks all shame.” He pulls out a string of beads and wraps it around himself like pearls. “Oikawa-san coordinates his tie with Hanamaki-san’s hair,” he adds solemnly.

Well, that’s a one mystery solved. He won’t let Yahaba have the satisfaction of knowing this, though. Pulling on a deadpan expression, he says, “Oh no, whatever shall we do.”

“I’m serious, angel.”

“I know.” Shirabu sits up, nearly knocking Yahaba off his lap. “That’s the worst part about this conversation.”

Yahaba pouts. It’s one of the most childish things Shirabu has seen him do thus far, yet something about it is unfairly adorable. _He’s adorable_. Without thinking, Shirabu wraps his arms around him. “Yahaba, we...” He worries his lip. “I—”

“Fudge!”

Shirabu blinks. “What?”

He grabs Shirabu’s shoulders. “I forgot I’m baking cookies.” Frantically, he scrambles off his lap and bolts for the kitchen.

The oven opens. Smoke pours through the room.

Frustration eats at Shirabu. He was so close. But listening to Yahaba’s frantic cursing makes it hard to stay upset. Shaking his head, he lies back on the floor, hiding an exasperated smile beneath his arm.

He still has time to tell him. He’ll make sure of it.


	13. Trouble

Yahaba tilts his head. “It’s melting.”

Shirabu stares at the display. Paint indeed globs along the side as if it had been blasted with a flamethrower.

“Not very scientific.” Yahaba tilts his head further, his neck bent like a slinky.

“The robots are upstairs.”

“What a concept.” Glancing down at the map, Yahaba points out the next exhibit. “They have a light show.”

“I’m epileptic.” Shirabu bends down. Even at this angle, the display is hardly discernible. Black meets red. He can’t tell if it’s a melting red sports car or a pile of molten lava cooling slowly.

“I don’t think they’re that type of lights,” he mumbles, but his finger slides to the next attraction. “Magnets. Digital media. Brain teasers.” He flips to the next section. “Dinosaurs. Oh my, it’s _Jurassic Park_ , angel.”

Shirabu straightens up. “It’s science and natural history. They didn’t reengineer dinosaurs.”

“Boo.” Yahaba flips to the end of the guide, scanning through pictures of the aquariums.

Taking his hand, they walk past the door to the light show. The end of the hall opens up. Walking through an archway, they find large display cases. Rows of tables stretch across the room. On the nearest one, objects seem to hover in the air.

“Whoa.” Yahaba pokes one of them. Up close, it looks like a small bundle of metal. “Iwaizumi-san had a toy we built like this once.”

Shirabu skims over the plaque explaining how the objects are held between two magnetic poles. This news doesn’t surprise him. From Yahaba’s stories, it seems this Iwaizumi person fostered most of Yahaba’s love for science throughout high school.

Shirabu pauses.

No.

It can’t be.

“What does Oikawa call Iwaizumi?” he asks.

A vaguely repulsed expression crosses Yahaba’s face. Like a child telling his parent a curse word, he mumbles, “... Iwa-chan.” He cringes. “Why?”

The picture of Iwaizumi holding a giant grass lizard from Oikawa’s phone floats through Shirabu’s mind. “No reason.”

Boxes of more metal objects rest on the tables. Selecting a small triangle shape, Shirabu drops it above the magnetic platform, watching as it immediately starts to float among the other objects.

“If they had refrigerator magnets,” Yahaba muses, “we could write words.”

“You’d write curse words.”

“No, that’s you.”

“You.”

Elbowing him, Yahaba leads the way to the far side of the room. Children line up before what must be the brain teasers. A little girl sticks her hand into a box and screams. A boy lifts a stick to a glass case, and black fragments swirl within, coalescing around it like an evil spell.

Yahaba immediately shoves his hand into one of the boxes, his tongue poking out of the corner of his mouth. “Brain coral,” he decides.

Shirabu flips over the card for the answer and scowls. “You’re weird.”

“We have brain coral at work.” He moves on to the next mystery box. “This has something cold and bumpy. Circular. Frog eggs? No.” He frowns. “Petrified leatherback sea turtle eggs? No, wait.”

Shirabu checks the answer. Finding it not animal related in any way, he moves on, sure Yahaba will take a while to give up on it. Ahead, teenagers push clear pegs into the wall to watch them light up in an array of colors. A water puzzle takes up the north wall. Little children race to keep up with the boats floating in its current.

A sphere sits on a platform. Shirabu touches it, watching as purple light shoots forth to meet where his finger rests against the glass.

A camera flashes.

Shirabu jumps.

“Sorry.” Yahaba smiles. “I wanna take pictures for Ennoshita-san.”

“If you want pictures, just use the purikura over there,” he sighs, moving to the next display. It’s another sphere. This one declares an ability to guess the user’s mood. Shirabu places his hand on it. Yellow-orange pools around Shirabu’s fingers for a split second before hands grab him, yanking him away.

Yahaba pushes him into the purikura machine.

“This wasn’t what I meant,” Shirabu tries, but Yahaba has already shoved the money into the slot. Instructions scroll across the screen.

Yahaba wraps his arms around him, a hand coming up to form bunny ears behind Shirabu’s head. “Smile.”

Closing his eyes, Shirabu flips the camera off.

“You’re lame.” Before them, the timer restarts. Yahaba poses. He curls his hands in front of him to form a heart.

Shirabu rolls his eyes. Moving to Yahaba’s other side, he loops his arm through Yahaba’s and makes a heart of his own. Shirabu blinks slowly just as the camera goes off.

The completed picture flashes across the screen, and Yahaba chuckles. “You look dumb with your eyes closed.”

“I’m epileptic.” Shirabu hits him just as the timer hits zero. The flash burns. Even still, he’s sure this one will be his favorite picture.

“Ow. Fine. Fine.” Yahaba cups his cheek, tilting his head back. “I’ll close mine, too.” Brushing back Shirabu’s bangs, he kisses his forehead.

The timer hits one. Shirabu closes his eyes. The flash lights up his eyelids, fueling the nausea in his stomach, and Shirabu wraps his arms around him.

“That was the last one,” Yahaba says. He runs his fingers through Shirabu’s hair. “You okay, angel?”

He is. Like the spots fading from his vision, the momentary discomfort passes. Still, he curls his fingers in Yahaba’s shirt and says, “One more minute.”

Yahaba kisses the top of his head. “Of course.” Shirabu leans into his shoulder.

And if Yahaba lets him stay there longer than a minute, then Shirabu isn’t one to keep track of time.

* * *

“That one?” Shirabu asks, not looking at the fish in question.

“Another Pterophyllum.” He sips his coffee, wrinkling his nose when he discovers it went cold sometime during his rant about coral reefs. “Probably from the Amazon. They have one of the most recognizable shapes. Ah! A baby giant oceanic manta ray.” He jumps from his chair. “The biggest of pancakes. Look, look, he’s going to the cleaner fish.”

Disposing of their coffee cups, Shirabu moves to stand next to him. “Are you sure you don’t want to be a marine biologist?”

Yahaba turns to him seriously. “You can’t pet fish.”

“Fair enough.” Shirabu watches a rainbow parrotfish swim by, and Yahaba’s eyes light up.

“Those are practically endangered,” Yahaba exclaims. “Ahh. Heckel discus, banggai cardinalfish, damselfish, look at ‘em all.”

Shirabu glances at the fish that all look more or less the same. “Yeah.”

The lights shimmer over Yahaba’s face, highlighting the wonder in his eyes. His lips part somewhere between awe and a smile. He’s softer. Relaxed. Happy.

The thought fills Shirabu’s chest with warmth, and he leans his head on Yahaba’s shoulder. “Do you see your favorite?” he asks.

Absently, almost like second nature, Yahaba wraps his arm around him. “No, they won’t have that.”

“Hmm?”

“My favorite is the black seadevil,” Yahaba proclaims.

Shirabu can’t find it in himself to be surprised. Yahaba has always been a weirdo; why shouldn’t his favorite fish be a hideous angler at the bottom of the ocean? Still, he plays along. “Why’s that?”

“They’re so tiny,” he says. “Adorable lil monsters. What will they do? Cute me to death?” He shakes his head fondly. “Precious.”

“You’re strange.”

“Dude, they have sharks.” He grabs Shirabu’s shoulders and shakes him. “I’m gonna get a closer look.” Without waiting, he takes off down the hall.

Holding his head, Shirabu watches him go. Honestly, Ennoshita would have done better to just give them tickets to an aquarium instead of a museum. Even if Yahaba spent a good half hour playing with the robots and another ten minutes trying and failing to beat a child at robot boxing, his heart will always be set on animals.

Reaching into his back pocket, Shirabu pulls out the guidebook. They’ve hit most of the exhibits. All that’s left is the dinosaurs.

Yahaba runs and grabs his hand, pulling hard. “We need to leave.”

Shirabu stumbles. The guidebook falls to the floor. “What?”

“Now. Like, right now.” Yahaba drags him.

Shirabu’s shoulder pops. Pulling his hand free, he looks back the way they came. “The hell are you running from?”

“Oh no.” Yahaba ducks behind him.

Shirabu watches some children run past them. Two boys with muscles bigger than their brains point out a clownfish. Heels click as a girl approaches.

“What is your problem,” Shirabu says. He expected a demon or a monster or Oikawa, but nothing out of the ordinary appears.

Yahaba spins him around, bending awkwardly to hide his face against Shirabu’s chest. “It’s my ex-girlfriend.”

“Your...” Shirabu pauses, brow furrowing. “I thought you were gay.”

“Bisexual,” he corrects. Carefully, he peaks over Shirabu’s shoulder. “Listen, can we talk about this away from the source of my emotional baggage? Ah, hell”—he ducks—“I think she saw me.” He looks for a way out, but standing in the middle of a hallway, aquarium walls on either side of them, he has limited options.

Shirabu sighs. “You’re useless.”

“She’s social,” Yahaba hisses. “Do something embarrassing.”

Shirabu stares at him. “ _You_ are the _only_ embarrassing thing here.”

“I need a distraction.”

“You need a spine.”

“A diversion,” he insists. “Cause a scene. Punch me or something.”

Shirabu hesitates. That _is_ tempting. However, getting evicted from a museum is not.

His better judgement wins out.

Slipping a hand beneath Yahaba’s chin, he tilts his head to the side, kissing the exposed skin of his neck. Yahaba’s breath hitches. Wrapping his arms around him, Shirabu pulls him closer, kissing down to his shoulder, his collar bone.

Yahaba’s fingers curl into his shirt. His head tilts back, eyes fluttering closed, and Shirabu follows the curve of his neck. His tongue teases the skin along his Adam’s apple. Tangling his fingers in Yahaba’s hair, he kisses down his jawline, sucking gently beneath his ear until Yahaba’s back arches. A slight gasp escapes his lips.

“I think she’s gone,” Yahaba whispers.

He breathes hard. Yahaba’s heart pounds hard enough that Shirabu can feel it through his chest, or maybe it’s Shirabu’s own heart beating like crazy. He’s crazy. The whole situation is, and his mind swims in it, struggling to grasp anything beside the tingling feeling in his lips.

“Yeah.” Shirabu buries his nose in Yahaba’s hair, as if he can breathe him in if he just holds him long enough. Fire pools within his chest.

Yahaba chuckles, nervous and awkward. “So much for, uh, no experience, huh?” His cheeks burn bright red, and he looks anywhere that isn’t Shirabu.

The color suits him, Shirabu decides. But if he pushes Yahaba any further, he might just combust. Taking mercy on him, Shirabu pulls back a little, giving him room to breathe. “I never said I’m inexperienced.” He brushes disheveled bangs out of Yahaba’s eyes. “I said I don’t like dating.”

“Right.” Yahaba swallows hard. “Right. Well. Thanks.”

“Don’t thank me.” Shirabu presses their foreheads together. “It’s not about her.”

“What...” Yahaba starts, but he trails off, words leaving him.

“Why are we here, Yahaba?”

Yahaba turns away, staring intently at an eel. “Ennoshita-san would be suspicious if we didn’t come.”

“Oikawa isn’t here,” Shirabu says.

“I know. That’s—that’s why we took pictures.” Yahaba’s gaze flits from the eel to a puffer fish, a stingray, an anemone.

Shirabu strokes his hair, admiring the way it changes from silver to brown when the light hits it just right. “I like you.”

The bits of his blush that had faded come back again, redder than ever, and he buries his face in Shirabu’s shoulder. “In a fake way?”

“You’re too annoying to pretend to like.” Shirabu rubs his back.

“In a roommates way?” Yahaba tries again.

“No. You’re an abomination of a roommate. You steal clothes. You have naturally curly hair, but some demonic impulse drives you to leave hair curlers all over the bathroom. You never let me sleep in.” Gripping Yahaba’s shoulders, Shirabu forces him to stand up straight and look at him. “You’re a menace without a warning label,” Shirabu says. “If Oikawa is the devil, then you are evil incarnate.”

“You’re no flipping angel either, buddy,” he says, but a nervous smile stretches across his face. “Is this your idea of a love confession?”

Shirabu’s heart pounds hard. He doesn’t know about love. He doesn’t know about dating or this inane work assignment or what he wants to have for dinner. Most certainly, he doesn’t understand Yahaba of all people.

But Shirabu has never been one to back down from a challenge.

“Yes.” Shirabu nods. “Sorry I didn’t make a letter.”

Yahaba’s grip on him slackens, his eyes going wide. Shirabu almost thinks he can see the steam pouring out of his ears as his brain struggles to keep up.

Leaning closer, Shirabu kisses the tip of his nose. “I like you, stupid.”

“Me, too—I mean, you too. I mean...” Yahaba hugs him. “I like you, too.”

“You’re useless,” Shirabu sighs. Still, holding him close, he can’t help the vast feeling overflowing through his chest, dizzyingly warm.

Happiness.


	14. In Paradise

Rain pelts the windows. Thunder roars. The laptop waits on the coffee table, untouched.

“So, yeah.” Yahaba runs his fingers through Shirabu’s hair. “It was a nasty breakup. I took it hard, but Oikawa-san was more upset than anything.”

Lying against him, Shirabu alternates between staring at the ceiling and letting his eyes drift shut. Lightning flashes through the room. “He’s weird like that,” Shirabu agrees.

Yahaba hums. “I got over her like two months later. I didn’t want to date right away again, you know? So,” he sighs, “Oikawa-san set me up on a blind date.”

Shirabu laughs.

“Shut up.” Yahaba nudges him, but he smiles, too. “Hanamaki-san and Matsukawa-san put him up to it... the first time.”

“First?” Shirabu asks.

Yahaba’s face contorts, as if in physical pain. “There were four.”

A second passes. Shirabu bites his lip.

“Don’t laugh,” Yahaba warns.

Covering his mouth with his hand, Shirabu says, “I’m not.”

“Liar.” Yahaba tugs his hair. “Anyway, they went bad. I dated a few guys after that just to get Oikawa-san to stop. One of ’em had real pretty eyes.” Humming, he adds, “You’re currently pretending to be three of them.”

“The three disaster dates,” Shirabu says. He remembers Yahaba’s fuzzy outline of what happened on each, something about spilled coffee, a restaurant eviction, and a near police conviction for a misunderstanding in an outlet mall.

“Yep. They were terrible, but Oikawa-san left me alone. Until you came along, that is.”

Rolling onto his side, Shirabu loops an arm around his neck. “I live to disappoint.” It’s weird being close with him like this—not because of a scheme or because they accidentally fell asleep together. A good kind of weird. The kind Shirabu doesn’t mind getting used to.

Yahaba’s arms tangle around him, one hand leisurely tracing circles on his waist. “Iwaizumi-san would be pleased to know Oikawa-san will finally stop with the blind date antics.” Under his breath, he adds, “Until he remembers Kindaichi’s single.”

Head pressed against his chest, Shirabu listens to the beat of his heart, letting it wash into white noise with the sound of the rain. “How did Iwaizumi die?”

Yahaba tenses.

“We don’t have to talk about it,” he says quickly, but Yahaba’s laughing, his shoulders shaking. He covers his face with both hands, and Shirabu might almost think he's crying if not for the dorky snort he tries to smother behind his fingers. “Talk about gallows humor,” Shirabu mutters.

“Iwaizumi-san’s alive, dumbass.” Yahaba laughs harder. “Oh my gosh. You—Hell, Shirabu. You can’t go around saying people are dead.”

Embarrassment colors his cheeks. Squeezing his eyes shut, Shirabu pulls the blanket up over his head and waits for this moment to be over. If he holds still, Yahaba might think he fell asleep.

Yahaba mercilessly yanks the blanket down. “This is what happens when you don’t ask questions,” he chides. “You mistake people as dead.”

“I ask questions,” Shirabu says.

“You thought Kuguri-kun was a kangaroo for two months.”

“One month,” Shirabu weakly corrects.

“You thought I’m gay.”

Shirabu inches the blanket back up. “All you talk about is guys.”

“Girls make me nervous. They’re soft and cute, and they smell nice.” He nuzzles into Shirabu’s hair. “You’re mean and salty.”

“I smell better than you,” Shirabu points out.

“You can’t count how I smell after work.” Yahaba flicks him. “Anyway, Iwaizumi-san is in university. He took two years off to travel abroad with Oikawa-san. They’re childhood friends, you know?”

Shirabu can’t picture Oikawa as a child. That would imply he is human, or, even more unbelievable, that he was once innocent. The closest thing that comes to mind is a smaller version of Oikawa with devil horns and a curling tail.

“He’s dating Matsukawa-san.” Yahaba yawns. Shifting into a more comfortable position, he circles his arms around Shirabu. “Keep this secret, ’kay? Matsukawa-san plans to propose.” His voice descends into a whisper. “You can come to the wedding with me. Matsukawa-san has good music taste.” The words start to come slower, Yahaba breathing deeper between each. “We’ll dance... and have fun.

“You’re supposed to be helping me fall asleep, remember?” Shirabu angles his head up to look at him, but Yahaba’s eyes are already drooping shut.

“I remember,” he slurs through another yawn. "Just gotta rest... for the holiday party tomorrow..."

“Hopeless.” Shirabu picks up his hand, pressing a kiss to his fingers. Yahaba doesn’t stir.

“There’s stuff we gotta talk about,” he mumbles. “About the fake dating. The project.” He toys with Yahaba’s fingers, examining his chipped nail polish. “About us.”

It’s all so new. Shirabu can’t think of a time he truly wanted to spend time with one of his romantic partners. He spent lunches and detentions with the boy from high school. In college, alcohol made it easier to get along with people, but waking up to a partner who smelt like tequila, curry, and sweat was an experience he decided never to repeat after the third incident. They were never the kind of people he wanted to spend time with while sober.

But Yahaba comes home hungover, smelling worse than a dumpster behind a bar. He makes smoothies at four in the morning. He sings only the most hideous of songs, and he hoards the blankets like an elderly dragon who has traded their gold for comfy covers. Like the sinner he is, he drinks orange juice after brushing his teeth. His A.D.H.D. makes it impossible to keep a conversation on track, preventing Shirabu from bringing up the important things.

Somehow, none of it makes Shirabu want to leave anymore. Even with the bed right down the hall for the taking, he’d rather stay here in Yahaba’s arms on their terrible couch and listen to a thirty minute story about the dog Yahaba saw on the subway two years ago that he’s already heard three times before.

“Liking you should be a crime,” Shirabu mumbles. Tucking his head beneath Yahaba’s chin, he thinks he’d be okay with a life sentence of this.

* * *

“Congratulations.”

“Thank you.”

The routine dwindles into just those two lines. Shirabu bows his head to one nameless stranger after another.

He made it. His report received the final stamp of approval. Now, he can start implementing his project, just as soon as he makes it through this holiday party.

“I never doubted him for a second,” Oikawa proudly proclaims. He pats Shirabu’s back harder than needed.

Hanamaki checks his watch and mutters, “You doubted him for many seconds.”

“Makki!”

Winking at Shirabu, he wraps a lazy arm around Oikawa’s waist and leads him away, ignoring Oikawa’s protest.

Shirabu sips his water. Against their schedule, Futakuchi started serving the wine as soon as the first guest arrived. At this rate, Shirabu will outlast all of his coworkers, the guest included.

He takes a deep breath and exhales slowly. For once, everything worked out well for him, even if there were some bumps in the road along the way. He can finally relax.

“Congratulations,” a familiar voice says.

Shirabu nearly smashes his glass. “Akaashi!”

Akaashi offers a polite smile. “You did well on the project,” he says.

Shirabu glares at him. “You’re supposed to be on vacation.”

“I am.” Accepting a glass of wine from a secretary, he holds it up for a toast.

Shirabu doesn’t move.

Unconcerned, Akaashi takes a sip. “I’m here as a guest,” he elaborates. With a pointed glance, he says, “I see your guest is having fun.”

Across the room, Yahaba and Oikawa dance together. Christmas lights shimmer around them. As Oikawa twirls him, Yahaba throws his head back in laughter, and Shirabu finds himself relaxing at the sight of it.

“He is.” Shirabu tears his gaze away. “What of it?”

“I’m glad you sorted things out with him.” Akaashi tilts his head back and observes the snowflakes and dreidels dangling from the ceiling. Clusters of holly bunch in the corners. The Christmas tree lights reflect in his eyes, revealing a sincerity Shirabu wasn’t expecting.

Still, he can’t let his guard down. Akaashi is a sly rat. “You didn’t tell anyone?” he asks.

Akaashi glances at him. “No. I never planned to.”

“Why not?” Suspicion flows through the question. Shirabu would never keep useful information to himself, not if he could utilize it as blackmail. Yahaba he trusted to keep his secret because the truth would be just as embarrassing to him as it is to Shirabu. Akaashi on the other hand has nothing to lose and everything to gain.

Akaashi’s face softens, his gaze drifting past Shirabu to Yahaba.

No, not Yahaba. Next to him.

Ennoshita stands on Yahaba’s other side. A sleepy smile curves his lips, soft and gentle, and when Shirabu looks at Akaashi, he finds a matching smile on his face.

Oh.

 _Oh_.

Shirabu leans against the table. “How long?”

“Four months.” Finished with his wine, he hands off the glass to a man collecting them. “Due to his position, he doesn’t want the office to know.” Sharply, he adds, “I respect his privacy.”

It’s a threat. But it’s also a trade. A secret for a secret—Akaashi and Ennoshita’s real relationship for Yahaba and Shirabu’s fake one.

Bowing his head in gratitude, Shirabu finishes his water. He’d nearly forgotten the danger Akaashi posed, but now, a weight slips off his shoulders. Akaashi was the last missing piece to this troublesome puzzle.

Akaashi’s brow wrinkles. His lips twitch into a concerned frown. Shirabu follows his gaze to where the others are standing.

Fear fills Ennoshita’s eyes.

Shirabu straightens up.

Head down, Yahaba pushes his way to the exit.

“You said you didn’t tell anyone,” Shirabu snaps. He whips toward Akaashi, fist clenched.

He looks at Shirabu in genuine confusion. “I didn’t.”

Shirabu curses. He doesn’t have time for this. Throwing his glass on the table, he chases after Yahaba. Guest jump out of his way.

“Jirou-chan?”

Shirabu shoves past Oikawa without stopping.

“Yahaba.” Shirabu closes the door just as Yahaba yanks it open. “What happened?”

Yahaba doesn’t look at him.

“Are you okay?” Shirabu touches his shoulder.

Yahaba slaps his hand away. “Is this some kind of joke to you?”

“What?” Shirabu searches his face for some kind of clue. Yahaba and Ennoshita had always gotten along well; Ennoshita wouldn’t pull a prank on him here anymore than Shirabu would. If Akaashi didn’t tell Ennoshita about their formerly fake relationship, then...

Yahaba glares at him. He grabs Shirabu’s collar and yanks him forward. “Is there something you’d like to tell me, Shirabu?” He gestures at the silent audience behind them. “Or is that work for your underlings now that you’re a bigshot?”

“I’m not a bigshot.” Shirabu grabs his wrist. Leaning closer, he whispers, “Tell me what’s going on.”

“I will.” Yahaba shoves him back. “In January.”

Shirabu’s stomach drops. Panic seeps into his lungs. “Hold on a minute—”

“Why?” Yahaba shoves him again. “Because you won’t be here in January? When the hell did you plan to tell me?” Rage undercuts his voice like a knife, made all the more cutting by his low tone. “Were you going to text me goodbye from the plane? Am I too unimportant to breakup with face-to-face?”

Shirabu takes a deep breath and counts to ten. “No.” The numbers swim in his head. His chest burns. He starts the count over, getting lost after only five. “You misunderstand,” he says.

“Yeah.” Yahaba walks out. “Yeah, I really bloody did. You’re right, Shirabu.” Shaking his head, he looks away. “This wasn’t fake. But only for one of us.”

Shirabu reached out for him. “Yahaba—”

He slams the door in Shirabu’s face. The metal smashes against his hand.

Shirabu’s jaw drops. His chest stings. Bruises form across his fingers. Anger bubbles in his stomach, tainted by another feeling, one he doesn’t want to think about.

“Shirabu-san, don’t,” someone warns.

Throwing open the door, Shirabu shouts, “Get your ass back here.”

Yahaba flips him off without looking back.

Shirabu surges forward, but hands grab his shirt, yanking him back inside.

“Bro, not a good idea,” Terushima says. He clings to Shirabu's side.

“Get off!”

Futakuchi locks his arms around Shirabu’s chest. “As much as I love watching you screw everything up, this one will come back to bite _all of us_.”

“Shirabu-san, I’m sorry.” Ennoshita bows. “I thought you told him.”

“You should have.” Icicles drip from his voice.

Shirabu stops struggling.

Oikawa glares at him, arm crossed over his chest. “I trusted you to do the right thing,” he spits.

“Babe.” Hanamaki nods his head to the crowd of spectators, but Oikawa steps forward. Terushima and Futakuchi back away.

“You’re going to fix this,” he says. A smile carves his face like a razor blade. “Starting right here. Right now.”

Shirabu stares past him to the dismal remains of the party. Hushed whispers echo through the room. Eyes burn into him from all sides. He’d rather face a warzone than go back in there. Hell, he’d rather hunt Yahaba down and beat some common sense into his stupid, empty head.

Something in his chest throbs with a physical pain that aches and bleeds. His head spins. His thoughts melt away, leaving his mind numb, his body numb. He glances at the door, but he already knows it's too late. Yahaba is long gone. With the realization, the last of his anger bleeds out of him.

Shirabu forces a deep breath through his lungs. He counts to ten. Lifting his head, he walks back into the party.


	15. Fall From Grace

Shirabu paces back and forth before the bedroom door. His thoughts jumble and collide. Frustrated, he tries to sort them into neat, logical sections.

This isn’t his fault. He _did_ plan to tell Yahaba and had tried several times already. Back when Ennoshita first warned him, he’d told Yahaba this project was a means for him to leave as soon as possible. He’d mentioned it other times, too. Yahaba is just being stupid and thick headed like always.

But it is his fault. And he’s sorry. He should have been clearer about the situation. He never meant for anyone to get hurt. Fortunately, he has a solution already in place, and if Yahaba could just give him five minutes, he’ll explain.

Why should he explain? Why should he even give Yahaba the time of day? Shirabu wrote off dating just because he didn’t care for trivial things like affection. Now, the gaping hole in his chest is a much more convincing reason to write it off for good. To hell with him. Good riddance. Their relationship ended the moment Yahaba slammed the door in his face, as far as he’s concerned.

His chest stings just at the thought, and Shirabu clutches his head. There’s too much to think about, too much to sort. What does he want?

He should have stuck to the original plan. He should have told Yahaba the whole truth. He should have just left Yahaba at home away from Ennoshita and his other gossiping coworkers. He should have—

The bedroom door opens a tiny fragment of the way. “Can you have your moral ambiguity elsewhere?” Yahaba asks, his voice bled of emotions. “Some of us wanna sleep.”

Shirabu’s heart clenches. Swallowing hard, he blurts out, “You jumped to conclusions.”

The door was only open an inch, but Yahaba still manages to slam it shut.

Shirabu leans his head against it. “That’s not what I meant.”

Yahaba did jump, or maybe Shirabu pushed him to the only possible conclusion. Maybe it’s both of their faults, or what if it’s neither? Shirabu searches for a black and white answer in a sea of gray. Arguments crumble in his fists. Reason melts on his tongue.

Annoyed, he starts pacing again. He needs to do something, to find whatever he’s looking for.

“Fix this,” Oikawa had said without providing any instructions.

Shirabu fixed the party. He ignored the weird looks and side glances. In an instant, he and Oikawa formulated a cover story for the fight. He shook hands and made polite conversation as if each breath isn’t burning him alive. Shoving his emotions in a dark corner, he got the damage under control so he could finally slink home and lick his wounds.

But this isn’t like that. This is one person. One with a name, a face, and a broken heart. One that makes Shirabu feel like the ground has been ripped from beneath his feet.

His stomach twists like he’s going to be sick.

The door cracks open again. “Say whatever the hell you need to say so I can sleep.”

“You should be sorry,” Shirabu snaps. “Wait!” He throws his hands against the door before Yahaba can slam it shut. “That wasn’t right either.”

“Screw off.” Yahaba struggles to shut the door.

Shoulder pressed against it, Shirabu pushes the door open, bit by bit, until he can wedge his foot between it and the doorjamb. “I’m sorry you got hurt,” he tries again.

“Gee, thanks.” Yahaba shoves the door hard. It slams his foot, and Shirabu hisses through his teeth.

“Dammit! That’s not what I...”

What does he mean?

He needs to change his line of thought. Yahaba gave him a hard time about never asking questions. Maybe that’s the right place to start.

Shirabu leans his weight against the door to take pressure off his foot. “How do you feel?” he asks.

“How do you think I feel, dumbass?” He punches the door.

Okay, bad question.

To hell with logic. Bracing his hand against the doorjamb, he tries to leverage the door open further. “I’m not leaving in January.”

The resistance disappears. The door flies open. Shirabu hits the floor hard. His shoulder burns.

“Holy bloody hell.” Yahaba stares down at him. “You’re leaving next week then?”

Shirabu sits up. “Yahaba—”

“No.” He walks to the dresser, opening and slamming drawers shut. “It’s great. It’s flipping fantastic. The sooner you’re gone, the better.” Furiously, he flings clothes onto the bed along with his keys.

“What are you doing?” Shirabu stands. His foot throbs.

“Going where I can sleep in peace,” he snaps.

Shirabu recoils. He takes a deep breath and counts to three, to ten, to twenty. The anger boiling through his blood doesn’t fade.

Closing the space between them, he grabs Yahaba’s shirt and shoves him against the wall. The curtain rod falls. “Stop running away like a coward,” Shirabu snaps.

Yahaba’s eyes flash. He grabs Shirabu’s hand and pries it from his collar. “You’re the only coward I see here.”

His grip is crushing. Shirabu’s hand aches. As he struggles to pull free of his grasp, it finally sinks in that Yahaba wasn’t lying about lifting pandas.

“You could have just told me the truth. Or better yet, you didn’t have to pretend you like me,” he says, voice harsh like a slap across the face. “We could have faked it for one more damn week.”

“I wasn’t pretending.”

“Why should I believe you?” Yahaba shoves him away. “You lied.”

“I didn’t lie,” Shirabu argues.

“You sure as hell didn’t tell the truth.” Moving around Shirabu, he grabs his bag for work and starts shoving his clothes into it. “A lie. A secret. An omission. Call it whatever excuse helps you sleep at night and leave me friggin’ alone.”

“Okay, fine. I screwed up.” Shirabu grabs his arms. “But listen to me for one damn second.”

Yahaba glares at him. “ _Why should I_?”

“Because I’m not leaving!”

Yahaba eyes narrow further. Pushing Shirabu’s hands away, he crosses his arms over his chest and waits.

“I don’t know how much Ennoshita told you—”

“Just that you’re leaving forever.”

“Shoot me,” Shirabu mumbles.

Moving past him, Yahaba resumes packing. Shirabu follows one step behind him, taking his clothes out of his bag and shoving them back into the dresser where they belong. “Stop, Yahaba.”

“You stop.” Grabbing a jacket, he hits Shirabu with it.

Shirabu throws a pair of jeans at him. “I tried to tell you, okay?”

“Not okay!” Yahaba smacks him with a sock. Scooping the rest of the clothes out of the dresser, he drops them haphazardly on the bed. Shirts spill over the side. Finding some of Shirabu’s clothes in the pile, Yahaba throws them onto the floor.

“Fine.” Shirabu takes a deep breath and drops the weaponized shirts in his hands. They need to end this fight before someone gets strangled with a scarf. “Ennoshita is wrong.”

Sparing him a dark look, Yahaba throws Shirabu’s favorite shirt into the trashcan.

A muscle works in Shirabu’s jaw. “First of all, go to hell.” He shoves Yahaba’s books off the desk. “Second of all, fine. He has a point. Most candidates leave forever.”

Yahaba clutches a shirt to his chest, his hands shaking. Fabric tears. “I don’t want to hear your ‘R.I.P. but I’m different’ story.”

Shirabu steps closer. “It’s just how the program is designed.” He tries to pry the shirt from his grasp. “Oikawa trains us to excel in our target country so we don’t need to come back. But—”

Yahaba lets go. Shirabu stumbles back. The shirt smacks his face. “You,” Shirabu hisses, but the threat dies on his tongue the moment he looks at Yahaba.

Fingers covering his mouth, Yahaba’s defenses fall. Shock fills his eyes, giving way to devastation, and he sits heavily on the bed. An angry sob shakes his shoulders.

Panic explodes in Shirabu’s chest. He really messed up this time.

“He knew,” Yahaba whispers. “Of course he knew.” He buries his face in his hands. “I’m an idiot.”

Shirabu winces. He’ll be getting an earful from Oikawa for this later. Seeing Yahaba like this though is like having a knife twisting in his chest.

Kneeling before him, Shirabu takes his hands, pulling them gently from his face. “Hey,” he whispers. “Oikawa wanted to tell you.” He strokes his thumbs along Yahaba’s knuckles. “He’s pissed at me, too. I’m surprised I haven’t been fired or murdered yet.”

“Both are good,” Yahaba mumbles. He stares down at his lap, but he doesn’t pull away. Shirabu can’t tell if that’s a good sign.

“I thought...” Yahaba chews his lip. With a self-depreciating laugh, he says, “I didn’t think Oikawa-san would choose you over me.” A certain misery clouds his eyes, wrinkling his brow and twitching his lips into a frown. Yet he hides it away, and Shirabu can’t help but wonder if he learned that from Oikawa, too—how to tuck his pain away behind a charming smile and a silly façade.

“You and I both know he’d never do that,” Shirabu says. “Unless he’s plotting who to kill, he will always pick you over me.”

He still doesn’t understand why Yahaba respects him so much. He probably never will, but he knows two things for certain. The first is that no matter how good of an actor Oikawa is, not even he could hide how worried he was when Yahaba left the party.

The second is that Yahaba needs to hear this. “He cares about you.” He presses his forehead against Yahaba’s knuckles. “I care about you,” he says, “so damn much.” The words leave his lungs, breathless and heavy, as if he can force every ounce of meaning into them so Yahaba will understand—will never doubt how special he is to Shirabu for even one second.

Lifting his head, Shirabu squeezes his hands. “I changed the plan,” he says, searching Yahaba’s face for a sign, an emotion. “I’m not leaving in January, and there’s not a chance in hell I’m leaving forever.” He presses a tentative kiss to Yahaba’s fingers. “I’m not leaving you.”

Finally, Yahaba looks at him, but the emptiness in his stare is as dangerous as the eye of a hurricane. “Why didn’t you tell me that from the get go?”

The storm of thoughts comes back to Shirabu all at once. He never found the right answer for himself; he hasn’t the slightest clue what it will be for Yahaba. But he’s waiting, and keeping him waiting is what got Shirabu in this mess in the first place.

“I...” He takes a deep breath and counts until the storm dulls into a light drizzle of chaos. “I don’t have a good answer.”

“But you’re sorry,” Yahaba leads him through it.

“I’m sorry.”

“And you’re stupid.”

Shirabu’s pride bristles. Pushing past it, he mumbles, “I did something stupid.”

“Because _you_ are stupid,” Yahaba repeats, his tone firm.

“Yeah.” Shirabu chews his lip. “I’m stupid. I’ve been drinking your dumb boy juice every morning.”

Yahaba kicks him, using just enough force to get the message across. Looking away again, he asks, “When do you leave?”

Shirabu’s knees hurt. Getting up, he sits on the edge of the bed right in Yahaba’s line of sight, sighing in relief when Yahaba doesn’t turn the other way. “Don’t flip out, but we go for three days in January. Then we’ll go for a few weeks around March.” Shirabu moves a stray shirt out of his way. “We estimate some short trips here and there to keep things on track.”

“We?” Yahaba asks. “As in you and Oikawa-san?”

“Osamu.” The name leaves a bitter taste on his tongue. “With the time restrictions, it’s too much work to go alone.”

“Say that again,” Yahaba says, “but truthfully.”

Shirabu grimaces. Hunching his shoulders, he mumbles, “I need help since I cut my time there in half.”

Yahaba shakes his head. “You chugged the whole damn bottle of dumb boy juice.” He drags his hands over his face, running them up through his hair until his curls stick up in random directions. “Stupid Shirabu. Half of forever isn’t a few weeks.”

Shirabu steals a glance at him. His face looks puffy, the skin around his eyes rubbed red. Disheveled hair reveals he’d been tossing and turning. Tension lines his shoulders. But softness has returned to his gaze.

Too late, he realizes Yahaba is watching him. “Ask me.”

“Ask what?”

Yahaba raises an eyebrow.

Shirabu stares down at his lap. There are a lot of things he wants to ask, but he doesn’t want to say the wrong thing either. The newness of the situation is daunting.

He’s come too far to back away now, though.

Staring intently at the dresser, he asks, “Are we gonna be okay?”

Silence follows. Shirabu taps his fingers against his knee.

“I don’t know,” Yahaba decides. “I need to sleep on it.” Rubbing his temples, he sighs. “This day’s been way too long.”

“Right.”

“And I’m taking the bed.”

Shirabu opens his mouth but quickly closes it. “You...” He chews his words over. “That’s coldblooded treason, but I accept.” He stands before Yahaba can shove him off the bed. “I need a long bath anyway.”

“Use my shampoo,” Yahaba says suddenly.

Shirabu frowns. “Why?”

“I trashed yours.” He meets his gaze unapologetically. “Your soap, too.”

Pursing his lips, Shirabu nods. “Alright.” That’s fair enough, considering. Walking to the door, he asks, “Anything else I should know about?”

Yahaba pretends to think it over. “I wouldn’t use your toothbrush if I were you.”

“Noted.” Shirabu looks back one last time. Yahaba’s bag lies discarded on the floor, still stuffed with clothing. One of Shirabu’s slippers came off during their scuffle. The curtain rod dangles half suspended from the wall.

Picking up his slipper, Shirabu decides it’s stuff to worry about later. He’s still not sure what he wants exactly. Maybe to breakup and cut his losses or maybe just an entire bottle of wine. Neither option feels like it will fix this though. His heart stutters in his chest.

Shirabu just doesn't want to lose him yet.

“Goodnight, Yahaba.” He shuts the door.

Quiet, like the creak of a floorboard, he thinks he hears a whisper. “Goodnight, angel.”


	16. Worth It

“When I said use my shampoo”—wet hair drips onto Shirabu’s head—“I didn’t mean empty the whole flippin’ bottle.”

Shirabu leans back to look up at him. A drop of water splashes his forehead. “Good morning.”

Yahaba flicks him. His hair dangles limp and dark in his face.

“I was angry.” Shirabu turns back to his soggy cereal. “Sacrifices had to be made.”

Annoyed, Yahaba grabs the spoon out of Shirabu’s hand and throws it in the sink.

Shirabu pauses. He has two options: get a new spoon or commit murder. Neither option is appealing at eleven in the morning. Instead, he holds eye contact with Yahaba and lifts the bowl to his mouth, loudly slurping the milk.

Plopping down in the other chair, Yahaba glares at him. “Heathen.”

Shirabu sets the bowl down. “Perfume salesman.”

“Mushroom jellyfish.”

“ _Death Note_ sympathizer.”

“Angel.”

Shirabu freezes, nearly choking on his next insult. Something builds in his chest. It’s sharp like broken glass, tinged with numb hope. He shoots him a venomous look, but Yahaba only smiles back, his cheek resting against his hand.

Shirabu coughs into his fist and tries not to think about it. “Whatever.”

“There are things we should talk about,” Yahaba says. His phone pings. Lazily, he reads the message, not bothering to reply.

Shirabu drums his fingers on the table. “Yes.”

“Let’s start with your lack of apology flowers or breakfast in bed.” Yahaba marks another text read.

“I want a divorce,” Shirabu deadpans.

“That is no way to get back in bed with me.” His phone pings three more times in quick succession. Catching Shirabu’s gaze, he explains, “Oikawa-san has his own penance to pay.”

Shirabu arcs an eyebrow. “You’re judge, jury, and executioner now?”

“Yes.” Yahaba mutes his phone. “I hereby find you guilty.”

Shirabu sighs. He should have known this wouldn’t be easy. “What’s my sentence?” he asks.

“Hang on.” Turning away from him, Yahaba quickly googles court terminology. “There’s a word for this,” he mumbles. He scrolls through a blur of legal definitions. “There’s not a word for this? Really?”

Reaching across the table, Shirabu pushes the phone down. “Can you be normal for five minutes?” he asks.

“Execution.”

That’s fair, Shirabu supposes. He holds out both wrists like he’s waiting to be handcuffed.

Disinterested, Yahaba plays with Shirabu’s little finger. “I wanna read your report.”

“Okay.” It’s a reasonable request. Shirabu has a copy of it on his laptop, as well as thirty other unfinished copies he refuses to delete on the off chance he still needs them for some unknown, forsaken reason.

“I want permanent rights to the bed,” Yahaba says.

And just like that, reason flies out of the window. Shirabu picks up a cup and throws it at him.

Yahaba ducks beneath the table. “Missed!”

Shirabu grabs silverware off the countertop, but arms wrap around him, pinning his hands down. “Let go.” He tries to wiggle free.

Yahaba buries his nose in Shirabu’s hair. “You smell like me.”

“It’s your over glorified shampoo.” Shirabu manages to turn around, but face to face with Yahaba, he stops struggling.

Yahaba presses their foreheads together. “I’m mad at you,” he mumbles.

“Right.” Yahaba’s hair is still wet, dripping onto Shirabu’s cheek. Yahaba will get himself sick like this. He truly is a useless creature. It’s unfair how endearing Shirabu finds him.

Yahaba’s gaze burns like a forest fire. It warms everything inside him, filling Shirabu’s ribcage with smoke until he can’t breathe. “Don’t ever lie to me again,” he says. “Promise.”

“I promise.” Shirabu wraps his arms tentatively around him. “No lies or secrets. Other than where I hid the T.V. remote.”

“I knew it,” he hisses.

“You can have the bed,” Shirabu says, his fingers curling into Yahaba’s shirt, “but only after you forgive me.”

Yahaba smiles. “You just say that ‘cause you think I’m gonna share it with you.”

“Damn it.” Shirabu tries to look away, but Yahaba slides his hand to the back of Shirabu’s neck, holding him in place.

Yahaba closes his eyes. “There are things we gotta talk about,” he murmurs.

“I know.” Shirabu rubs circles against his back, careful to avoid his ticklish spots.

“The half truths. The destruction of property, which admittedly I started,” he mumbles the last part. Opening his eyes, he says, “How sucky your apology was.”

“Hey.”

“You told me I should be sorry,” Yahaba points out.

Shirabu grimaces. “That’s valid.” Apologies have never been his forte.

Straightening up, Yahaba kisses his forehead. “You are a chaotic dumbass.”

“What does that make you?” Shirabu asks, looking from his wet hair to his taco printed pajama bottoms.

Yahaba smiles. “The best boyfriend ever, of course.”

That one Shirabu can’t argue with. As many mixed feelings as the situation has given him, just seeing him smile—no matter how condescending or teasing it may be—is enough to repair the damage in Shirabu’s heart.

Pulling away, Yahaba grabs his hands. “Let’s go to the parade today. Together.”

Shirabu frowns, tilting his head. “The Christmas parade we make fun of?”

“Yeah.” Yahaba shrugs. “I don’t have work this week. Why not?”

Shirabu worries his lip. He can think of a couple reasons why not, but the fact that the event is a lame knockoff version of the true Santa parade is surprisingly at the bottom of the list, buried under more important concerns.

“It’s not about the parade.” Yahaba sees right through his hesitation. “We’re going to talk.” He squeezes Shirabu’s hands. “Little by little. You, frankly, suck at talking ‘bout important stuff... and also at talking in general. Let’s not force it all at once.”

Shirabu nods. The pressure in his chest lifts, like a rope being untied from his lungs, letting him breathe easier.

A natural smile curves Yahaba’s face, free of his teasing. “We’re going to be okay, right?”

It’s the question Shirabu asked him last night. Then, Shirabu had been unsure if anything would be alright. Now, with Yahaba’s hands in his, he feels a spark of hope flaring to life, like a flower weathering a storm to find the sun again.

“We will be,” he says. Maybe not today. Or tomorrow.

But as Yahaba lets him go and walks to the couch only to stop dead in his tracks, Shirabu thinks they may already be a step closer to the day when things will be normal again.

“Is that...” Yahaba tears his gaze away from the coffee table to stare at him.

Shirabu nods. Walking over, he picks up the vase. “I got you, uh, apology flowers?”

Yahaba’s jaw drops. He quickly covers his mouth with his hands. His eyes fill with shock. Almost as if he needs an explanation to ground himself back in reality, he whispers, “Are they stolen flowers?”

The word “no” almost escapes his tongue—Shirabu bought them from a strange merchant bundled up in six jackets on an empty street—when a better idea occurs to him. “Stealing,” he corrects.

Yahaba gasps. “Don’t do it.”

Shirabu holds them out to him. “They’re stealing your breath away.”

Pushing past the flowers, Yahaba hugs him. “That is the lamest thing you’ve ever said.”

Awkwardly, Shirabu wraps an arm around him. He still needs more practice with things like showing affection. But knowing that they have as much time as they need to get it right makes all of his tension finally disappear.

Shirabu pats his back. “You have morning breath.”

“And just like that, you ruin it.” Yahaba pulls away.

“Sorry.”

Yahaba runs both hands through Shirabu’s hair, making sure to mess it up as much as possible. “It’s fine. You’re no flipping angel.” He smiles, slow and playful. “You know what you are?”

“... A dumbass?” Shirabu guesses. It’s the main insult Yahaba seems to know. He’ll have to ask him about that one day. There’s a lot Shirabu doesn’t know about him—a lot he _wants_ to know.

“Without a doubt,” Yahaba says, taking the flowers. “And an idiot. And you must’ve been a koala in a past life.”

Not sure how a koala fits in there, Shirabu only nods, biting down on his own retort that Yahaba must have been a Victorian interior designer.

“But know what else you are?” he asks. Not waiting for a reply, Yahaba presses a gentle kiss to Shirabu’s cheek. “My angel.”

* * *

Hand in hand, Shirabu lets Yahaba lead him through the crowd. Men and women dressed as Santa Claus dance down the street. Vendors sell hot chocolate and strawberry cake.

“I know a good spot,” Yahaba says. He tugs Shirabu past a line of Christmas trees.

Most of the snow has been shoveled for the event, but snowflakes still fall from the sky. Shirabu pulls his scarf up higher.

Beside him, Yahaba somehow managed to forget both his scarf and his hat. Gloves protect his hands only because Shirabu bought them for him at a nearby gift shop. Shirabu may have agreed to come on the condition that Yahaba wear a minimum of two jackets, but that won’t stop Yahaba from going out of his way to get frostbite.

“Hey.” Yahaba glances at him. “Wanna see something cool?”

“No.”

Winking, Yahaba tilts back his head and starts singing the end of “Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony.”

Like a scene straight from a movie, another person picks up the song, followed by more, until their voices carry together all across the square. Some of the Santas join the chorus. In only an instant, the band picks up the tune, and the music echoes off the buildings, blanketing them in holiday cheer.

Shirabu doesn’t know if he should record it or cover his ears. “Whoa.”

“Cool, right?” Yahaba loops his arm around Shirabu’s shoulders, pulling him to sway with the song.

Shirabu tears his gaze away from the crowd to see Yahaba’s smug smile. “That is some fairy-level nonsense.”

“Everyone loves this song.”

“I don’t.”

“You’re not everyone.” Letting him go, Yahaba nods toward a café. “C’mon.”

Shirabu raises an eyebrow. “That’ll be crowded as hell,” he protests.

“Yep.” Yahaba pushes him forward. The ground is still too slippery to fight back. Not resisting, Shirabu opens the door and steps inside.

Hearts dangle from the ceiling. Warm air blasts Shirabu’s face, and he pulls down his scarf. The scent of coffee draws him to the counter where servers rush to hand out cups of hot chocolate.

A man whistles, fiddling with the coffee machine. Shirabu stares at his hair as he tries to place the song. He thinks he’s heard it before in a Western movie for children. The color of his hair is familiar, too. It’s a light shade of pink, like Kool-Aid or... one of Oikawa’s neckties.

“Hanamaki-san.”

He glances back. “Yo.” A set of fake antlers sits on his head, and when he reaches up to pull a string, one of the antlers waves at Shirabu. “What can I get’cha?”

“One coffee, please. Two creams.” Shirabu pulls out his wallet. “I didn’t know you work here.”

“Nah.” Pulling a marker out from behind his ear, Hanamaki doodles on the side of the cup. “I own this place. Order whatever you want. Tooru’s paying.”

“Makki!”

Shirabu tenses. Turning stiffly, he finds Oikawa hugging Yahaba tight.

“I told you, I’m okay,” Yahaba says. He pushes weakly to escape.

“You left me on read for three hours.” Oikawa pouts, burying his face in Yahaba’s hair. “I thought you died.”

“I texted you back.”

“Three hours later!”

Like a cry for help, Yahaba sends Shirabu a desperate glance.

Shirabu turns to Hanamaki. “Oikawa-san wants to buy one hundred cups of hot chocolate.”

“Jirou-chan,” Oikawa snaps.

“Two hundred.”

Releasing Yahaba, he stalks forward to glare at Shirabu. “Don’t think you’re not in trouble for yesterday,” he hisses through a false smile.

Shirabu sips his coffee. Oikawa-brand revenge so far has come in the form of unrealistic deadlines and embarrassing nicknames. The worst punishment he’s endured was an awkward train ride alone with Oikawa, and even that ended better than anticipated. Liking his odds, Shirabu turns to Hanamaki and says, “Three hundred.”

Hanamaki snickers, not bothering to hide his grin when Oikawa whips toward him. “You’re generous today,” he teases.

“You are not ringing up that order.” Oikawa leans across the counter. His muscles relax, his voice dipping lower into something bordering on flirtatious.

Nausea threatens to overtake Shirabu. He looks around for Yahaba, but he’s disappeared into the crowd. Shirabu’s shoulders slump. This is the last place he wants to search for him in.

“Psst.” A waitress pushes a plate of Christmas cake into his hands. “He’s upstairs,” she whispers. Setting down a cup of hot chocolate, she walks off before Shirabu can question her.

Shirabu tries not to dwell on it. If Yahaba visits Hanamaki at work even half as often as he visits Oikawa, then it’s no wonder the staff know him. Stacking the hot chocolate on his coffee cup, he makes his way toward the back of the café where a sign marks the stairway entrance. A waiter conveniently opens the door for him right as he reaches it.

Cold air greets Shirabu. The stairs lead up to the rooftop. Snow piles up to his ankles, and he takes a step back, already regretting his choice to leave the warmth of the café.

Ahead, Yahaba sits precariously on the handrail. The parade marches by down below, trumpets blaring. Dancers twirl through the street carrying banners and drums. Watching through half closed eyes, Yahaba hums the chorus of “Ode to Joy.”

Shirabu balances the plate on the rail beside him. “You have an obsession with danger,” he mutters.

Yahaba glances down at the ground far below them, his leg dangling out into oblivion, and shrugs. “So far, you’re the only thing here that’s hurt me.”

Something in Shirabu’s chest snaps. “Then fall.” He takes a sip of coffee, hoping the bitter taste will wash away the sting.

Yahaba pulls the fork out of the cake and takes a bite. Stray frosting clings to the corner of his lip. Tearing his gaze away, Shirabu watches the band set up for the last song of the parade. It’s only a small, local event organized by volunteers, but he wishes it would last longer to distract him from this mess.

Yahaba chews on a strawberry. “Tell me one of your deepest, darkest secrets,” he says.

A secret? Several flash through Shirabu’s mind. He took the last slice of pizza from the refrigerator. He became an accomplice in the Jello scandal when he accidentally witnessed Usuri pouring Jello mix into Oikawa’s desk drawers. In high school, he had a crush on one of his senpai. There’s a Disney song Shirabu resonates with that Yahaba cannot ever find out about or else he’ll sing it endlessly.

Some of his former classmates might know about those last two.

Leaning his arms on the handrail, Shirabu tries to find something he hasn’t told anyone. Something deeper. Something from before he got tangled up with a nosy high school basketball team.

“I burned my grandmother’s decorative hand towels,” he finally admits.

Yahaba slowly lowers his hot chocolate cup from his mouth. “Why?”

Shirabu shuffles his feet. He should have chosen something less petty. Glaring intently at one of the drummers, he says, “Revenge.”

“Against... your grandmother?”

“She’s homophobic.” Shirabu keeps his gaze on the drummer who has dropped his drumsticks. “My parents moved in with her. I moved into the Shiratorizawa dorm rooms and burned the towels in a bathroom without smoke detectors.”

Yahaba stares at him seriously for a long moment before laughing. He covers his mouth quickly, but color blooms along his cheeks. “That—that’s such a you thing,” he says, a smile clear in his voice.

Shirabu hunches his shoulders. “Was there a reason for this?”

“Yeah.” Yahaba rubs his eye. His laughter slowly dies down, and he leans back against the wall, somehow looking even more precariously balanced on the railing. “I’m having trouble with things,” he says.

“Clearly.”

Yahaba throws a handful of snow at him. Voice somber, he says, “I can’t trust you, it feels like.” His gaze wanders out over the band. “I think back and... and I don’t know what was real from the fake.”

Shirabu nods. He’s not sure of that either. Of when the smiles started coming naturally. When the hand holding stopped being just for show. When Yahaba’s surprise visits at work became the highlight of his day instead of just another bump in the road of life.

A snowflake flutters onto his hand and melts. “At the museum,” Shirabu says, “I wasn’t faking.”

“I—”

“Or the zoo.” Shirabu straightens up. Taking the hot chocolate from Yahaba, he grips his hands. “I liked you before the night Taichi came over.” He searches his memory for events that stand out, something more specific than spending every evening with Yahaba because he wanted to and not just because the power went out and they had to share candles to conserve resources like they did when they first moved in together.

“Ice skating?” Yahaba asks.

“Yes.” Shirabu squeezes his hands. “I thought I had a fever for going out in the snow with you. I still gotta be sick.” He gestures at the flurries falling around them. “What the hell was I thinking? And fricken’ ice skating on top of it.”

“The Thanksgiving dinner,” Yahaba says.

Shirabu starts and stops. This fake dating charade has filled him with mixed feelings from the beginning, and they only grow muddier the farther back he searches.

Yahaba covers Shirabu’s mouth with his hand. “ _I realized_ at Thanksgiving,” he amends.

Shyly, he pulls his hand away and scratches at the back of his neck. “We just, you know, never talked much before”—Yahaba gestures, indistinct—“ _all this_... But it was nice hanging out with you. And, uh, lookin’ after you when you got sick.” He adds, “You aren’t as sassy when you’re sick.”

“Shut up.” Shirabu nudges him, careful not to make him lose his balance.

Turning away, both legs dangling out into open space, he mumbles, “When you said you believed in me at the Thanksgiving party, I guess, I thought it might be real.” He glances at Shirabu, “Then I realized, I wanted it to be real.”

“Wanted?” Shirabu repeats.

Yahaba offers a cheeky grin. “Yep. I’m totally over you.”

“Liar.” Shirabu leans his head against his back. He wraps his arms around Yahaba’s waist, both to make sure Yahaba doesn’t fall and for himself, to remind himself that things will be okay.

Yahaba leans back against him. “Tell me another secret.”

“I’m not hiding things from you,” Shirabu says.

“Tell me anyway.”

“I was vegetarian for two weeks in high school,” Shirabu mumbles into his shirt. It feels almost like when they started fake dating. Yahaba had sat on the couch and shared every detail about his life that Oikawa might ask Shirabu about. Now, it feels natural, more important.

“Why’d you stop?” Yahaba asks.

“I learned Semi-san is a vegetarian. I didn’t want to do something he would be happy about.” Lifting his head to rest it on Yahaba’s shoulder, he says, “Hayato-san was holding his phone once and told me he’d lost his phone. I told him I hadn’t seen it.”

Yahaba chuckles. “We do that when Oikawa-san forgets his glasses on top of his head.”

“I had a hairless cat because of my allergies,” he says, and Yahaba tenses up.

“You _knew_ you have allergies,” he hisses.

Shirabu apprises his surprise and indignation with an amused hum. “I have a tattoo.”

“What?” Yahaba shouts. He jumps. His legs slip, and he grabs desperately for the railing. Shirabu’s grip on him tightens. His weight yanks him forward. Yahaba kicks helplessly against the roof edge, searching for some traction.

Gritting his teeth, Shirabu pulls him back onto the handrail, not stopping until his legs are over solid ground where they belong. “Danger magnet.” Shirabu shoves him into the snow. His heart threatens to pound out of his chest.

“A tattoo?” In an instant, Yahaba is back on his feet, walking circles around him.

“You just fell off a roof,” Shirabu snaps.

“Almost fell.” Yahaba waves his hand as if that will wave away Shirabu’s concern. “Where is it?” He stares intently at Shirabu’s chest, trying to see through his layers of jackets.

Exasperation reaching its peak, Shirabu can only shake his head and smirk. “Not telling.”

“Hell, Shirabu. You can’t _not_ tell me now.” He circles around him again, his hands trailing along Shirabu’s back as if he’ll be able to feel the tattoo somehow. “Is this why you refuse to go to the onsen with me?”

He tries to pull Shirabu’s scarf down, but he slaps his hands. “It’s cold, stupid.”

“So? You have a tattoo.” Yahaba tugs at Shirabu’s collar.

“That has nothing to do with the weather.” Grabbing Yahaba by the shoulders, he pushes him back a step. “You’ve seen my neck.”

A look of interest crosses Yahaba’s face. “Is it somewhere embarrassing?” His gaze dips down.

Shirabu kicks him. “No.”

Behind him, Shirabu’s coffee cup lays on its side, spilt during Yahaba’s near fall. He tries Yahaba’s drink instead, but the chocolate has settled into a state of unappealing lukewarm. Grabbing the cups and empty plate, he heads for the stairwell.

Yahaba blocks his path. “Let’s play twenty questions.”

“No.”

“Hot or cold?” he asks, taking the dishes from him and setting them by the door.

“ _I’m_ cold.”

Yahaba pouts. “Are you a secret yakuza?”

Closing his eyes, Shirabu proclaims a curse on Yahaba’s genes for making him look cute when he’s being annoying. “I was drunk,” he says, letting the haze of college nights without memories wash over him. “I woke up. I found it while showering. I ended a relationship, and I left to get coffee.”

Yahaba wraps his arms around Shirabu’s neck, letting his hands dangle in the open air. “You broke up with him over a tattoo?

“It wasn’t my relationship that ended,” Shirabu says.

Yahaba kisses his nose. “Karma will come for you one day.”

“I did him a favor,” Shirabu mutters, but he can’t help but wonder if Yahaba is his karma. He must have done some horrible things to get stuck with him. But also some wonderful things. Not that he can think of any.

Yahaba stares at him intently. His eyes truly are like a forest, deep brown and brimming with life. A perfect place to get lost in. Yet when his gaze narrows, they burn with a threat, like something dangerous is lurking in the shadows.

“Get it over with,” Shirabu sighs.

“It’s a basketball.”

“No.”

“Gay pride flag?”

“No.”

“A coffee cup.”

That actually sounds like a decent idea for a tattoo compared to the mistake he got stuck with. Yahaba will never guess right at this rate.

“If I show you”—Shirabu takes a step back, nodding his head toward the handrail—“you promise _never_ to sit like that again.”

Yahaba tucks his hands behind his back and nods. “I promise.”

Shirabu waits, eyes narrowed. Yahaba doesn’t look at him. “Try again without crossing your fingers behind your back,” he says.

“I didn’t,” Yahaba lies.

“Fine.” Shirabu shrugs. “I don’t have to show you.”

“Okay, okay.” Yahaba holds his hands up in front of him, uncrossing his fingers. “I promise.”

Shirabu gives him a long, measuring look before finally relenting. Deep down he knows Yahaba will still be a reckless mess of a man, standing on chairs and perching on the edges of buildings, but any steps toward preventing him from falling off a roof are good steps.

Already regretting his choice, Shirabu turns around and lifts up the bottom of his jackets and shirt, revealing his back to the chilly afternoon air.

“It’s...” Yahaba kneels down. He presses his gloved hands against Shirabu’s bare skin. “A feather?”

“I was drunk.” Shivering, Shirabu focuses on keeping his teeth from chattering. “I’ll get it removed one day.”

Yahaba strokes his thumb along the tattoo, just above Shirabu’s hip. “A white feather,” he says to himself. “Like a swan? You’re mean like a swan.”

Shirabu tries tugs his jackets back down, but Yahaba’s hands stop him. “A white eagle? A dove?” His fingers leave warm trails on Shirabu’s back. “An angel?”

“Stop.”

Yahaba hums. “It’s right at waist level. I must’ve touched it a thousand times by now without knowing.”

Shirabu glances at him. “You make it sound creepy.”

Yahaba rolls his eyes. “It’s okay.” Leaning forward, he kisses the tattoo.

Shirabu shivers, his back tensing up. “Your lips are cold,” he hisses. But Yahaba’s breath is warm, heating up his skin.

Finally letting Shirabu’s jackets down, Yahaba stands and wraps him in a hug. “It’s okay, because we’re okay.”

It’s a statement—no longer a question. And just like that, all of the broken pieces in Shirabu’s chest come back together.

He leans into him. “Yeah. We’re okay now.”

Shirabu lets the warmth, so fuzzy and vast, flow through him, pushing away his thoughts about snowfall and frostbite and Christmas. They’re okay. There are no more countdowns. No more pressure. They have all the time in the world to tell each other their secrets, their feelings, their everything.

Shirabu still doesn’t know what this is—like or love or the gray stretch of life that connects the two—but he doesn’t mind, not now that there’s nothing fake about it.


	17. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> March—Three months later

A child cries. Announcements blare over the speakers. The sound of suitcase wheels rolling over cheap flooring echoes around them like thunder.

Shirabu leans his head against Yahaba’s back. “Please stop.”

“I’m almost done. Annnnd. There!” He types away on Shirabu’s phone. “That’s Instagram, Snapchat, Discord, Skype, and Line.”

“Too much,” Shirabu protests.

Turning around, Yahaba loops his arms around him. “You’re going to the other side of the world. I gotta keep in contact with you somehow,” he says.

Shirabu takes his phone back before Yahaba can think of any other communication methods. “I’ll message you,” he promises. He will also be deleting half of those apps, but that’s something for mentioning after he reaches America, well beyond Yahaba’s ability to redownload them.

“Every day,” Yahaba says.

“Yes, every day.” Shirabu buries his face against his shoulder.

“I’m gonna be sick,” Futakuchi mutters. Dropping the last bag on the floor, he sits down on a waiting chair and grabs a random magazine.

“Will you call me every day, ‘Samu?” Atsumu asks.

Osamu doesn’t miss a beat. “No.”

“Send me lots’a pictures,” Yahaba says. He runs his fingers through Shirabu’s hair, and Shirabu leans into his touch. Closing his eyes, he tries to engrave Yahaba into his memory. His voice. The smell of his over glorified shampoo. The warmth of his arms around him.

Yahaba squeezes him tight. “I’ll miss you.”

“It is one month, people,” Futakuchi interjects.

Atsumu looks at his brother. “Will ya’ miss me, ‘Samu?”

Osamu shrugs and says, “Only when I’m holding a knife, ‘Tsumu.”

Pulling back just a little, Shirabu flips them off. He knew they’d make a big deal of Yahaba coming to the airport with them, but he couldn’t find the strength to tell Yahaba no. Now, with only a few walls between him and the plane, he’s glad he didn’t. This won’t be like his three day trip. This is a month. A full thirty days without Yahaba. He’ll be trapped in a hell of fake American ramen and loud businessmen with no one to make snide comments to.

“I’ll miss you, too,” Shirabu murmurs, pressing their foreheads together. “But I won’t miss your blanket thievery.”

Putting down his magazine, Futakuchi pretends to gag. Yahaba smirks. Tilting up Shirabu’s chin, Yahaba peppers his face in kisses until Futakuchi angrily hides behind his magazine again.

Shirabu takes a slow, deep breath. “Don’t forget to eat just because you get excited about a new animal.”

“Yeah, yeah. _You_ should focus on not forgetting anything,” Yahaba says, booping his nose. “I won’t be there to bring it to you.”

Osamu glances at his brother. “Water the plants.”

“Hah?” Atsumu frowns. “What plants? Like ‘plants’ plants?”

Shirabu shakes his head. Yahaba’s brow furrows. “What other kinds of plants are there?”

“Don’t ask,” Shirabu mumbles. He didn’t know Osamu had a brother, but from the five minutes he’s known Miya Atsumu, Shirabu is certain they hired the good twin out of the pair.

Osamu hits Atsumu with his keys. “Just get my car home safely.”

Over the speaker, another flight is announced. Someone screams and runs for the closed gate.

“Futakuchi, when’s our flight?” Shirabu asks.

“I dunno.” Shrugging, he sets aside his magazine. “Somethin’ about the west gate.”

“Uh”—Yahaba points at a line of people—“the one boarding, like, right now, you mean?”

“Why is he here again?” Osamu asks.

Letting go of Yahaba, Shirabu rips their suitcases out from beneath Futakuchi’s feet. “To annoy us.” He shoves Osamu’s bag to him, making sure to hit Futakuchi with it as he does so.

Like a cat waking from a leisurely nap, Futakuchi stands and stretches. “I’m actually here for Kuroo-san. Oikawa said he needs a ride home from some work trip.” He jangles a pair of company keys. “I got the fast car.”

“Drive off a bridge,” Shirabu snaps.

“Wait. Wait, before you go.” Futakuchi steps up to Osamu, who takes a concerned step back. “Osamu-san.”

“He used an honorific,” Yahaba whispers.

Shirabu nods. “Never a good sign.”

Futakuchi holds out a pen and a scrap of paper. Lowering his voice, he says, “Give me your brother’s phone number.”

“Dude.”

“They have the same face,” Shirabu says. He turns to look at Atsumu who is busy cleaning his ear with the tip of his finger, and he shudders.

A second turns into ten. Osamu stares at Futakuchi long and hard, as if assessing his sincerity, and then grabs the pen. “Here.”

“What?” Yahaba asks, covering his mouth in horror. “Just like that?”

Shirabu can’t decide whether he should feel bad for Atsumu or for Futakuchi. Even Futakuchi looks surprised, his eyes widening when Osamu places the paper in his hands, curling his fingers around it.

“Make him suffer,” Osamu says.

Smiling like a cat who has just caught a mouse, Futakuchi tucks the paper safely into his pocket. “Yessir.”

Shirabu grabs his suitcase. “I’m leaving now,” he mumbles, “before this get worse.”

Yahaba sends Shirabu a knowing glance.

Something in Shirabu’s chest tightens.

His three day trip in January hadn’t been that bad; hell, it had been almost a relief to escape from Yahaba and the awkwardness that came after a fight, allowing him to come home to a fresh start.

This is nothing like that. The gravity of the situation hits him all at once, all of the thoughts and feelings he’d been pushing down surging up to the surface to drown him.

He doesn’t want to leave.

The irony is almost funny. All he’s ever wanted was to leave.

No more Oikawa, who has, he reluctantly admits, become more pleasant since he fixed things with Yahaba. No more weird neighbors, even if they did offer him bread and sympathy whenever he locked himself out of the apartment. No more dealing with his team of disaster coworkers, although Ennoshita and Akaashi can be okay sometimes—Usuri, too, when he’s starting Jello scandals instead of hanging mistletoe over Shirabu’s desk.

It’s what he wanted, isn’t it?

Yahaba hugs him from behind. “You’re gonna miss your flight.”

“Yeah.” Shirabu shakes his head as if he can force the thoughts out. “I’m going.” He tries to step forward.

Yahaba’s grip tightens.

“Shigeru?” Shirabu glances at him.

“You’re leaving for thirty days,” Yahaba mumbles into his shoulder. “I need a thirty minute hug.”

“You get thirty seconds,” Futakuchi says.

“Deal.” Yahaba snuggles closer.

“Do I get a say in this—”

“No,” Futakuchi and Yahaba say together.

Leaning back in Yahaba’s embrace, Shirabu accepts his fate. He closes his eyes and counts to thirty. Then forty. Then fifty.

“Shigeru.”

“Thirty minutes,” he mumbles.

“You’ve never held me for thirty minutes in your life, you A.D.H.D. sap.” Pulling at Yahaba’s hands, Shirabu escapes his grasp. “I’ll message you when I land,” he promises.

“I’ll message you, too,” Osamu offers.

Shirabu pushes him away. “No, he won’t.”

“I won’t,” Osamu agrees, but he winks at Yahaba. Trying and failing to be inconspicuous, Yahaba winks back. Shirabu’s head hurts just imagining what kind of deal they could have made behind his back. Whatever it is, it can only lead to Shirabu’s embarrassment.

“Hurry up already.” Futakuchi slings an arm around Yahaba’s shoulders. “I’ll watch out for your boyfriend. Some quality time spent with the one true Kenji will do him good.”

Yahaba feigns a confused expression. “But Shirabu is leaving?”

“Listen you,” Futakuchi warns, his finger pointed at him like a weapon.

The last announcement for their flight sounds. Osamu heads for the gate, not bothering to say goodbye to his brother who is already halfway to the exit.

Shirabu spares a second to push Futakuchi off Yahaba.

“Stay safe.” Yahaba smiles.

He should be the one saying that to Yahaba, but he only nods, taking a step back. The feelings threaten to surface again. Chewing his lip, he starts to turn away, then stops. “Shigeru?”

“Yeah?”

“No sitting on handrails.”

Shaking his head fondly, Yahaba winks, his gaze dipping to Shirabu’s waist as if he can see through his shirt to the tattoo underneath, and he says, “No drunk mistakes.”

Shirabu risks a glance at the gate. Osamu stands outside. Catching Shirabu’s eye, he taps his watch. They need to go.

But Shirabu walks toward Yahaba instead, throwing his arms around him for one last hug.

“Angel?”

Warmth overcomes him. His fingers tangle in Yahaba’s shirt, and he buries his face against Yahaba’s neck. “I love you.” The words come hesitantly, torn somewhere between whispering and choking, as if they got stuck in his throat on the way out.

“I love you,” he tries again. Still stiff. But it comes more naturally this time. No longer mechanical and awkward like it had been back when they had been faking, and Shirabu holds him tighter. “I love you.”

Yahaba tenses up, but then his arms are around Shirabu, hugging him tight. “I love you, too,” he whispers. “So much. But damn you have bad timing for a love confession.” Letting go, he pushes Shirabu toward the gate. “Now hurry.”

“Right.” Shirabu grabs his bag. “Futakuchi, please get lost with the luggage. Shigeru.” He kisses Yahaba’s cheek. “Talk to you soon.”

He makes it to the gate just as Osamu abandons waiting for him. The boarding process passes by in a blur. With only one snide comment about Shirabu’s height, Osamu throws their bags into an overhead compartment, and then they’re both seated, waiting to leave everything they know behind.

Shirabu pulls on his face mask. “If he marries Atsumu, Futakuchi will be your brother-in-law.”

Osamu doesn’t bother to look at him. With a pillow around his neck, he’s already set to sleep the flight away. “That will keep them both out of my hair.” He closes his eyes.

Shirabu doubts that will be the case. But then again, only a few months ago he doubted he could so much as have a decent conversation with Yahaba, let alone a relationship. Looking down at a text message from Yahaba with twenty emojis, he can only smile, his chest warm.

Love changes people for the better.

He wouldn’t have it any other way.


End file.
